The Scarlet Flower
by NeedTheDark
Summary: "We can't have you running back to the FBI telling tales, can we? I'm afraid you're coming with me…" Twenty-seven year old rookie profiler Elizabeth Scott is rescued from the clutches of a criminal gang by a mysterious stranger, only to find that he has an agenda of his own… A dark romance. Lizzington. Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Welcome to my new fic! Captured by the Lorca family, Elizabeth Scott doesn't think she's going to make it out alive. When the notorious criminal Raymond Reddington discovers her in a filthy cell, he realizes who she is and takes her away with him. Violence and dark themes from the start. I don't own the Blacklist or the characters. Please do review – you'll make my day! NTDx**

 _My name is Elizabeth Scott. I am twenty-seven years old. My name is Elizabeth Scott. I am twenty-seven years old. I am Elizabeth Scott. And I don't want to die._

She no longer knew how long she had been there. The room was cold and windowless – no light or change in temperature for her to go on. For the first day or so she had tried to keep track of time. She listened for footsteps and other sounds in the warehouse. She tried monitoring her own internal clock – hunger and tiredness are good indicators. But to begin with she wasn't hungry or tired. _Fear kills the appetite. Adrenaline keeps people awake_. Starvation and sleep deprivation had soon taken care of that. Now she was hungry and exhausted all the time.

Lorca was her first big case. There was a new cocaine smuggling operation in New York, brought to the attention of her mobile psych team when it became clear that that the competition were disappearing fast - disappearing without a trace. There were never any bodies. No-one expected her to do anything except paperwork, but she'd been the one to put the profile together. She'd pointed the finger at Lorca – she'd got him, and his people knew it was her. His family knew. This was payback… and revenge is really the coldest of motivations.

She sat and leaned listlessly against the wall, examining the iron chains around her wrists for the thousandth time. She had a knack for locks, but not even she could work her way out of those. The concrete floor was hard and rough under her blackened fingernails. She knew she was filthy. She was still wearing the wretched pant suit she was wearing that day after work, minus the jacket – that had come off in the fight.

And oh, how she had fought. But she hadn't had a chance, really. They'd chained her up in a cell with nothing but a bucket of water and a grate in the floor, hurling fists and boots and abuse. Her pants and shirt were torn; sausage thick fingers pinching, grabbing, slapping, spitting…laughing. One of the men had urinated on her. The water she had was to be saved for drinking, not washing, she'd decided. She was brave. Or if not brave, then sensible.

For the first time in her life, she hated her ability to read situations. She knew that this wasn't the kind of room that people made it out of alive. If she was lucky, she'd pass out before they chose to end it. She lay down on the cold floor, exhausted, the ache of bruised ribs off-set by the ache of her empty stomach.

Not long afterwards she opened her eyes with a start to the sound of gunfire ricocheting through the building. There were shouts, and boots running on concrete, metal clanging against metal and the sickening sound of bullets ripping through flesh. As a profiler she knew that, whatever this was, it probably wouldn't end well for her. If the Lorca family operation had been compromised, they would kill her as soon as possible. No witnesses. No unfinished business. That's what made them so successful. She crawled into the corner as far as the chains would allow, and awaited her fate.

She flinched as the metal door to her cell banged open, clanging against the wall. A tall, black man she hadn't seen before entered and did a sweep of the room with his gun before his eyes settled on her. He said nothing, but she was encouraged by the fact that he holstered his weapon. He stood in the doorway regarding her in silence with a look at could have passed for compassion.

The commotion in the warehouse had ceased. The shouting had stopped, and the hail of bullets finished. For a moment there was nothing. Then she heard a moan from somewhere outside her cell followed by a single gunshot so loud it made her jump. The harrowing silence that followed was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching at a leisurely pace. The tall man turned away to speak to the owner of those footsteps. She tried to look, but couldn't see through the doorway.

"Raymond - they have a prisoner" he said in a foreign accent she couldn't place.

"Really! How exciting."

Whoever this man was, he sounded alarmingly cheerful given the circumstances. She watched as the tall man stepped aside and another man entered her cell. If she hadn't been terrified she would have laughed. He looked marvelously out of place in the filthy cell. He wore a three piece suit, with a luxurious overcoat, black leather gloves and a hat that made him look like a gangster from the 1940s.

He studied her for a moment, his expression best described as curious. Without taking his eyes off her he gestured to the other man, who brought him a chair and left the room. Smiling at her, he placed the chair a respectful distance from her and sat down genteelly, removing his hat and placing it on his knee.

She looked up at him from her position curled in the corner, her knees drawn up to her chest. He was considerably older than her, but with a handsome, inquisitive face and a refined manner that made her suddenly ashamed of the filth in which he had found her. Her hair was matted and she knew the dirt and tear tracks on her face must look horrendous, not to mention the aching, swollen cut on her lip where she had been slapped by a man wearing rings. She pulled the edges of her torn shirt together to hide her flimsy bra.

The older man drummed his fingers on the brim of his hat for a moment before speaking to her in a rich, conversational tone that belied the circumstances of their meeting.

"As you've probably gathered, the Lorca family and their associates have just gone out of business. That means whatever business they had with you is…concluded" he said, rolling his tongue around that last word.

She licked her dry lips nervously. "You're not FBI." It came out as a croak.

He surprised her by laughing heartily. "Good lord no!" His laughter died quickly and he suddenly seemed to be looking at her very intently. "But _you_ are."

She opened her mouth to deny it but he continued matter-of-factly. "You think I don't know law enforcement when I see it? But you're something else aren't you?" he said softly. "You're not a field agent - I can see you weren't armed. You weren't prepared for this at all, were you? A lost little girl" he mused. His tone was thoughtful, but he was looking at her now like a fox might on encountering a goose with a broken wing.

She shook her head slowly. She was growing dizzy and decided to ask a question of her own. If she wanted a chance of getting out alive she had to make a connection now. "Who are you?" she whispered.

"Oh do forgive me! I'm Raymond Reddington. Without wishing to sound immodest, perhaps you've heard of me."

She'd heard of him alright, although he looked nothing like his wanted poster. Criminal mastermind. Concierge of the criminal underworld. This was not good. Her eyes widened and she felt her body stiffen.

"Oh no no no, I'm not going to hurt you" he said quickly on seeing her expression. "But I would be _very_ interested to hear how a young agent such as yourself managed to incur the wrath of the Lorca cartel to the extent that they'd risk abducting you. Tell me - what have you done, mmmm?" he leaned forward and clasped his hands on his knees, making a show of not wanting to miss anything she said.

But she couldn't speak. The dizziness intensified and she felt as though her head was being crushed from the inside. She swallowed, wincing in pain as her head rolled against the wall.

He tutted as he observed this. "Ah hell. Dembe, see if any of our deceased hosts has keys for those fabulously medieval restraints."

His companion returned a moment later and handed him a bunch of keys, which he accepted, casually flicking through them for a likely looking candidate. Satisfied that he'd found it, he palmed his hat back on his head and stepped towards her, kneeling on one knee in front of her and undoing one cuff and then the other. As he worked she thought dimly of his designer pants in the dirt. Of how she must smell. He seemed utterly unconcerned, but when the second chain sprang off her wrist he seemed to freeze, his grip on her arm tightening.

Maybe he doesn't like women with scars, she thought. He wouldn't be the first man to be grossed out by the blemish on her palm. But she didn't care. She liked it – she couldn't remember a time when she didn't have it, and that was comforting somehow. She floated back to reality and realized he was now examining her scar. She wished he would stop touching it.

Suddenly, he took her chin in his gloved hand and raised her face up so he could see her better in the darkness, his other hand brushing her matted hair away from her eyes, which were drooping shut. He gripped her cheeks firmly. "Look at me" he commanded, without a trace of his formerly jovial tone. She opened her eyes with effort and looked up at him, with thick dark lashes framing piercing blue eyes.

 _Those eyes._

"Tell me your name" he said sharply, staring down at her.

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Scott" she responded weakly.

He sucked in a breath and looked stricken for a moment before his expression softened. "Elizabeth" he breathed. "What a beautiful name." He began to gently smooth her tangled hair and her eyes slipped shut again, her head falling back in his hand.

"Come on, stay with me Lizzie. We're going to get you out of here now." As he spoke he lifted her into his arms and rose gracefully from the dusty floor.

"Are you taking me to hospital?" she murmured.

"I'm afraid not" he said brightly. "We can't have you running back to the FBI telling tales, can we? No - you're coming with me. But don't fret – I have an excellent medical staff who will make sure you're as right as rain."

He ignored her cry of protest and carried her out of the cell she had occupied. She gasped when he turned onto the main floor – the warehouse was littered with bloody, bullet-ridden bodies which he and his silent companion stepped over daintily without so much as a backward glance. She felt so sick and woozy - almost like she was having a horrible memory - although it couldn't be a memory, she thought hazily, because she'd never been around a dead body in real life before.

She was terrified. Everything she'd heard about Reddington at the academy was true; he was a ruthless killer. Charming, yes, but utterly lethal. His hands gripped her a little tighter as he carried her through the warehouse, as though he could read her thoughts. She couldn't fight – she could barely stay awake. In the end she did the only thing she could; she closed her eyes against the horror and passed out in the warmth of the criminal's arms.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N After having watched her from a distance for years, Reddington has trouble adjusting to having Liz so close. Disclaimed. Please do review, you'll make me so happy :-)**

When she woke, she was lying on a bed in a large room with old, beautiful furniture and high ceilings. Every joint in her body ached, but she was wrapped in blankets and warm – so warm – for the first time in days. There were people all around her, and snippets of conversation flying over her head.

"We'll need to burn these clothes…"

"She's awake…"

She looked round and found the room full of people wearing an eclectic selection of medical uniforms; paramedics, nurses, doctors – even someone in surgical scrubs – and all of them seemed to be from different hospitals. She was approached by a young female nurse who smiled at her nervously.

"Hi there. You're ok sweetie, just cuts and bruises – we're going to get you cleaned up and hydrated. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

Liz swallowed thickly and looked around the grand room. "Where am I?"

The nurse's eyes darted uncertainly to her colleagues who looked equally nervous, and then back to her. "Somewhere safe – that's what matters."

Liz frowned. "You work for Reddington? What's your name?"

The nurse smiled again, a little too broadly. "Mr Reddington is anxious you get better soon, so let's focus on that, ok? Now, this might be difficult for you, but I just need to ask – do you need emergency contraception?"

Liz's cheek's flamed with embarrassment, not least because of the copious medical staff – male and female – who just seemed to be hovering in the corner looking at her.

"I don't need it thanks" she said awkwardly.

The nurse gave her a pained smile. "Ok, I'll be back to check on you later – the team here are going to get you cleaned up."

With that she exited the room, leaving Liz with a motley group of nervous professionals who couldn't seem to meet her eye as they washed her and treated her injuries.

* * *

After he'd handed the girl over to the medical team, Reddington washed and changed before retiring to the sitting room with a large scotch. It was a strange feeling, having her in his arms again. She had been just four years old the last time, with those same frightened blue eyes staring up at him as he carried her from danger. He had no feeling left in his back – full thickness burns had destroyed the nerves long ago - but in that moment at the warehouse he could have sworn he felt the prickle of flames again. A memory, embodied impossibly in flesh.

He'd felt something else, too; a glimmer of the tenderness he'd felt cradling that tiny child all those years ago. It had been a very long time since he'd experienced an emotion such as that and he disliked the feeling intensely. He had grown cold and hard over the years. He knew it – he even savored it. Anything else was painful. Anything else was a vulnerability.

He removed a cigar from a silver case and half-turned as the door opened and a young nurse entered, clutching her hands nervously in front of her.

"Well?"

"You asked me to let you know when she was awake, Mr Reddington."

"And how is the patient?" he asked, lighting the cigar as he spoke.

"A bit disoriented but her injuries are relatively minor. She'll be fine."

He nodded expressionlessly and took a drag of the cigar. "Was she raped?"

The nurse's eyes widened at this directness, the casual tone with which he asked. "I…don't think I should discuss…" she faltered.

He cut her off swiftly, turning to face her fully.

"As I recall you are being paid a rather large sum to do two things: treat the girl, and report to me. You are not currently performing either of those tasks" he said in a hard tone.

The nurse visibly trembled, and he placed the cigar in a heavy marble ashtray before taking a step towards her. "Now let's try this again" he said with an unpleasant smile "and this time you'll be ever-so helpful, and answer my question fully. What is her current condition, physically and psychologically? Try to find some more inventive adjectives than 'fine' this time."

The nurse looked at the floor, unable to meet his eye as she responded. "I asked her if she needed emergency contraception and she said no. But I believe she was badly mistreated – beaten and humiliated. She's bruised all over and was severely dehydrated. Physically she should recover fairly quickly. Psychologically speaking… it's hard to say how this ordeal is affecting her."

Reddington's eyes narrowed as he listened. It wasn't lost on him that the nurse had used the present tense in a way that suggested the girl's ordeal was still continuing. As though _he_ were holding her captive as the Lorcas had done. He found the notion deeply offensive.

"You can go" he said crisply.

The nurse looked up. "I'd like to stay with her-"

"That won't be necessary. Inform the team that that can leave when they're done. I can take it from there."

The nurse nodded silently and left the room. Reddington walked back to the table and knocked back his scotch before opening a draw and removing a cell phone. It was time to make a call.

"Sam – It's Raymond. I've found something you've lost…Yes, she's ok, she's with me. It appears that profiling job of hers is more dangerous than you imagined – apparently she got on the wrong side of some the FBI's prime customers…She's obviously been missing for days Sam, why didn't you call me?...Yes, well I think it's time to accept that you can't protect her alone anymore. You're an excellent father - I'm not questioning that - but things are becoming complicated. She could fall into the hands of some very bad people. And I should know! She fell into my hands, and I'm a _very_ bad person…I'm sorry Sam, I can't let her go just yet…..Now now, there's nothing to worry about. I won't tell her anything. She needs time to recover and it'll give me a chance to get to know the girl, not to mention time to arrange a professional security detail to protect her…No, I had something else in mind. There's a man I know, the Major…"

They spoke for some time, and Reddington was relieved when the call finally finished. At one time Sam had been a very dear friend, but that changed the night he had come to her with the girl. He couldn't afford friends after that. He'd made Sam a father that night and he couldn't jeopardize him or the girl by maintaining an association. He hadn't spoken to him in years.

There was a mail box Sam used to keep him in touch with developments in her life – school, college and then the FBI. To begin with he had paid for her keep and education, and later on it had pleased him to smooth the way for her in her various endeavors, pulling strings behind the scenes. He liked to hear about her hopes, dreams and desires. To pretend he knew her. In his mind she was still the precocious child that Sam had described in his letters, and he wasn't a criminal – he was her savior. Her invisible benefactor.

He poured another glass of scotch and unlocked a large wooden keepsake box on the desk, removing a photograph. There she was, smiling up at him with an awkward teenage grin, graduating high school. He ran his thumb over her image. It was his prop, used to fantasize about forgiveness, about redemption, on the days when his soul felt truly dark. Surely no other man alive used the image of a teen girl in an effort to _cleanse_ his soul, he thought wryly.

He heard the sounds of the medical team making their exit and replaced the photograph in the box with a sigh. It was time to meet her properly. He made his way up the winding stairs and entered her room quietly, half expecting her to be asleep. Instead, he found her standing at the window in a white tank top and navy jersey pajamas, fiddling with the latch. He cleared his throat and she spun round to face him.

"The windows are locked, and you are on the third floor" he said dryly. "Still, it's good to see you're feeling better. You gave me quite a scare."

"You don't seem like the kind of person who scares easily" she rejoined instantly.

To her surprise he laughed, almost affectionately. "No, I suppose I'm not."

Her cheeks flushed and he was momentarily caught off-guard – now that she was clean he could see that she was disarmingly pretty, despite the cuts and bruises. In addition to those striking blue eyes, she had porcelain skin and full, pink lips. Her hair curled attractively around her shoulders, even if she had fashionable highlights that weren't exactly to his taste.

To his dismay, he found he couldn't help but assess her body as she stood before him in the lounge wear his staff had selected; she had full, round breasts that filled out the tank top nicely, a slim waist and graceful, curvaceous hips. A woman's body. It was disconcerting to say the least. His eye twitched fractionally as he caught sight of a large, purple bruise at her hip just visible under her top. She pulled the bottom of her tank down self-consciously to cover the exposed skin.

"Mr Reddington – I'm very grateful for the help you've given me" she said stiffly," but I'm feeling much better and I think I'd like to go now."

He smiled humorlessly and titled his head to the side. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear earlier. The events at the warehouse today were part of a broader operation of mine and unfortunately I cannot allow you to jeopardize that by informing your colleagues at the FBI. Until my business is concluded, you'll be staying here. As my guest" he finished grandly, smiling and gesturing with a flourish at the room.

"You mean as your prisoner" she countered.

His smile vanished and his lip curled in distaste. "I prefer not to think of it that way."

"And I prefer to call things as I see them." She fixed him with an icy, accusatory stare that flooded him with guilt.

He continued in a light tone that masked the rising panic he was beginning to feel. "There are clothes for you in the draws and toiletries the bathroom. If there's anything you need that hasn't been catered for, just let me know. While you're here you should treat the house as your own. It's a rather ostentatious old place, I know – it belongs to an associate of mine."

"Where is he?"

Reddington smiled mischievously. "Taking a ten year vacation at Riker's Island."

She rolled her eyes. "Right. Another criminal."

He could feel his blood pressure begin to rise. Over the years he had insulated himself from the judgements of others; however corrupt he had become, he had adapted – even thrived – in the criminal underworld he inhabited. What was known only to him was that he had survived by preserving a tiny corner of his soul which still clung to the idea that he might be redeemed by the good he had done. By her. He had saved her life again today – but despite that, the girl who stood here in scathing judgement was worlds away from the sweet, forgiving angel of his fantasies.

"You must be hungry – you'll join me for dinner" he commanded frostily as he turned towards the door.

"I don't think so."

He felt anger begin to rise in his chest, fueled by the bitter disappointment creeping over him. His jaw clenched and his muscles tightened, wound like a snake ready to spring. His eyes glittered as he turned back to face her. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said I'll pass."

His face darkened. "Tell me, were you this belligerent growing up?" he said, his tone dangerously low.

"No – I only get like this when I'm kidnapped by traitors and murderers" she shot back.

Her words cut him to the quick. To see his own monstrous image reflected in her beautiful eyes was unbearable, and a flash of anger sparked across his face. As he began to respond he crossed the room towards her, but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her shrink away from him against the wall, her eyes suddenly filled with fear. _Poor girl_ he thought bleakly. Underneath that bravado she was petrified, as well she might be after the hell she'd been through. His anger dissipated quickly, replaced by utter shame at having frightened her, and the miserable realization that to her, he was nothing but a killer.

He stepped back and ran a hand down his face in an effort to collect himself. "I'll have your dinner sent up" he said quietly. "You should get some rest." Chastened, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

When he returned to the sitting room his chest was tight, panic clawing at the edges of his mind. This was not how he imagined their meeting. Not in his fantasies – not even in his worst nightmares – had she ever looked at him quite like that. He flung the top off the scotch decanter, sending it clattering over the table as he poured himself a generous glass.

With the sting of whisky on his tongue he grabbed the photograph of her from the box again, holding it tightly between his shaking fingers. Clutching it miserably, he tried to conjure the feelings of solace her image engendered, but there was nothing. The illusion was gone. Today she had seen his true face; she had seen the bodies and been terrified of him. Try as he might, as he stared at the picture he couldn't escape the truth that the owner of that angelic face was currently his prisoner – and she was far less forgiving than her photograph.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Liz tries to get on with Reddington but is frightened and appalled by his murky moral outlook. Meanwhile, Reddington is disturbed by his growing desire for Liz. As ever not mine, and I love reviews as much as country brewed cider :-)**

The next morning Liz woke to the delicious smell of baking coming from downstairs. She showered and dressed as quickly as her battered body would allow, finding the drawers filled with clothing as he had promised. It was a luxurious selection, all in her size with plain designs in cool colors, each piece beautifully made in cashmere, silk and the softest cotton. She pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a blue cashmere sweater before heading downstairs.

As she entered the breakfast room she paused by the door to take in the scene. The room was light and airy, with large windows framing an ornate breakfast table set with baskets of muffins and fruit, tea, coffee, juice and a vase of white roses. There were two place settings. Reddington sat at the far end, dressed impeccably in a dove grey suit, a cup of coffee and a newspaper on the table in front of him. He looked up as she entered.

"Lizzie - did you sleep well?"

She nodded, eyeing him warily. "It's just Liz, actually."

Ignoring this, he folded the newspaper and gave her an appraising look. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore" she responded hesitantly. "But your...er… _team_ left me with some good painkillers."

He smiled warmly. "That was thoughtful of them. Prescription medication can be _such fun_ – personally I'm always grateful for the excuse to indulge."

She shot him an incredulous look and he shrugged, gesturing towards the second place setting at the table. "Have some breakfast – the muffins are heavenly, freshly baked this morning."

She approached the table cautiously, selected an apple from the fruit bowl and stepped back again, taking a small bite. He observed this behavior unhappily, and she began to feel self-conscious under the scrutiny of his gaze.

"Do you always wear a suit to breakfast?" she blurted suddenly.

"Yes" he responded simply.

"Oh… I'm sorry about your suit from yesterday. It must be ruined."

Reddington shook his head. "Not at all. In my line of work it's unfortunately not unusual find myself covered in a variety of difficult stains. I have a very… _understanding_ dry cleaner." He chuckled softly at his own joke and it chilled her to the core.

"Mr Reddington-"

He grimaced at hearing her address him that way – he liked it no more today than he had yesterday, and cut her off before she could continue. "How about we try something a little less formal, hmm? Just Raymond will do nicely."

He watched as she frowned a little and captured her bottom lip between her teeth. She didn't respond, but she didn't need to. She didn't want to be on a first name basis with a criminal and a murderer, he thought bitterly. He nodded and looked away from her in an attempt to hide his disappointment.

"Fine. You can call me Red."

 _Raymond 'Red' Reddington_ she thought numbly, remembering her college professor's voice saying the name in class.

"Ok, Red - I'd like to tell you something about myself if that's ok?"

He looked up at her with interest, canting his head to the side. "By all means."

She took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady. "I've worked at the FBI for 2 years as a profiler. I like my job. Making it to Quantico was the proudest moment of my life. I was raised by a single parent – my dad, Sam. I love him very much and he'd miss me if I were gone-"

Reddington's face hardened as he listened and after a minute he sighed and shook his head. His voice sounded tired and gravelly. "The FBI playbook. You're attempting to humanize yourself in my eyes to increase your chances of survival. Let's get a few things straight. I have _no intention_ of harming you in any way, but if I did, a speech about your hobbies and favorite color wouldn't make a blind bit of difference. You will be released at an undisclosed time of my choosing in the near future. Attempts to escape will not be tolerated. Do I make myself clear?"

It took some effort for her to fight the urge to run from the room - he expressed himself so eloquently, dismantling her clumsy attempt to build a rapport in a heartbeat. As it was, she nodded mutely.

His expression softened then. "Good. Now, if you would genuinely like to tell me about your job, then I would be delighted to listen." As he spoke he rose from his seat and poured a richly aromatic cup of coffee, which he set down at her place setting, before returning to his seat and gesturing to her to sit.

She hesitated for a moment and then sat down, enticed by the thought of having coffee after so many days without. She took a sip and closed her eyes – it was delicious, and definitely not store-bought. When she looked up he was observing her with a soft smile.

"So tell me then. About the profiling – I'm fascinated. Perhaps you could tell me my profile." His tone was warm and coaxing.

She took another sip of coffee and met his gaze steadily. "Ok… You're a loner. You're at home everywhere and nowhere – you enjoy fine houses but are equally able to adapt to cells like the one you found me in. You exude confidence and charm, but it's superficial."

Reddington barked a laugh at that and she continued a little breathlessly. "Something happened to you. Underneath your charming façade you're terribly angry – and sad."

His smile vanished and she watched nervously as his lip twitched. "Something happened to you too" he said tightly. "The scar on your palm."

Her hand went to her wrist unconsciously, as if to shield it from him. "There was a fire. When I was little."

He nodded sagely. "You were hurt as a child, and now you work for the FBI."

She frowned. "My working for the FBI has nothing to do with what happened. I don't even remember it."

"And that doesn't concern you?"

Liz began to feel hot, his gentle but persistent questioning getting under her skin. "Of course it concerns me! I was adopted when I was four years old, I don't remember a single thing about my life before that."

"Nothing at all?" he asked quietly.

"Just…flashes sometimes. Nightmares about the fire." She paused. "God, why am I even telling you this? It's none of your business anyway!"

She rose and made her way towards the door before stopping and turning to face him. "May I explore the place?" she requested awkwardly.

He nodded. "You may. In fact, there's a lovely rooftop garden if you feel like some fresh air, and a fascinating if rather obscure library. Will you be joining me for dinner this evening or should I have it sent up like hotel room service?" He smiled as he spoke but there was an edge to his voice which told her he hadn't forgiven her for eschewing his company the previous night.

"I'll come down" she mumbled.

"Splendid! I shall look forward to it" he smiled, his eyes twinkling.

She turned to leave but stopped when she heard him speak again, his tone suddenly deep and almost hesitant. "Elizabeth…Did you have a happy childhood? With your adoptive father?"

"Yes – he's a wonderful dad." She smiled with genuine fondness as she spoke, and it warmed his heart to see it.

* * *

That evening she came into the dining room to find him waiting for her, the table set with more flowers – pale yellow roses this time - wine, and what looked like boeuf bourguignon. It smelled incredible. He greeted her enthusiastically, leading her to her seat at the table and pouring her a glass of red wine which she accepted hesitantly. Why had she agreed to this? She suddenly imagined trying to account for her actions to the FBI, as she would have to eventually when he let her go. _If he let her go_.

Despite the chill she felt, she took a mouthful of the food and couldn't help the small moan of pleasure that escaped her lips.

"Wow. I guess this house comes with a gourmet chef as well."

He looked delighted. "I admit I have been known to employ a chef, but this is actually my handiwork. I enjoy cooking when I get the opportunity."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise and he chuckled softly. "You think criminals don't do anything else with their time? That they exist for the soul purpose of contravening your government's laws? No no no. That's the kind of lazy thinking the FBI encourages. The reality is that criminals often have a fascinating spectrum of interests, perhaps more so than your average law-abiding citizen. I'm sure you're aware that Charles Manson was a prolific songwriter. And did you know the Genesee River Killer was a very accomplished artist?" he continued conversationally. "His use of color was so vibrant, complex… Not what one might expect."

Liz looked him stonily. "The Genesee River Killer was a child rapist and murderer. You want me to overlook that because he painted pretty pictures?"

His face darkened for a moment "Of course not. Lizzie, the point is that people are complicated creatures – there's never just one side to a person's life story. The people you view as cold-blooded killers had lives – families – they were children themselves once. No one is simply born evil. It's a rich mix of DNA and experience that make us who we are and influences our actions. There are those for whom there is very little choice in life, if they are to survive" he finished, looking away from her.

Disgusted, she shook her head and threw her napkin on the table, rising from her seat and walking to the window.

"You always have a choice whether to kill. Whether to hurt someone" she said folding her arms, her voice thick with emotion. "What Lorca's people did to me… It wasn't even to help him. It was just revenge. Just _fun_ " she choked. "I don't expect someone like you to understand" she added bitterly.

She tensed as she saw him approach behind her in the reflection. "I believe I understand better than most" he said quietly, his voice soft and deep. "It's an unfortunate hazard of my line of work that I have become intimately acquainted with the kinds of conditions that you endured this week. Though I would never claim to understand exactly what you went through, I have seen some of the darkest behavior humanity has to offer."

For a second she was almost moved by his tone, which was gentle and tinged with regret. But she couldn't forget who he was. That he would try to sympathize was sickening. She turned to face him, and although he was intimately familiar with her face he was still struck by the depth and beauty of her eyes as she looked up at him.

"Are you telling me you've never imprisoned anyone? Never tortured anyone?" She cast a glance down at his immaculate suit. "Maybe you just have someone do your dirty work for you" she finished scathingly.

He bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. He loathed the image of himself she presented. He wanted desperately to lie to her, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. That at least was one injury he could spare her.

"Never for sport" he responded finally. "I take no pleasure in hurting people. Everything I do is done for a good reason."

Her chin crumpled a little with the effort of holding her emotions at bay. "And keeping me here – is that done for a good reason?"

She saw tension tighten his jaw but he said nothing and she shook her head angrily, wiping away a traitorous tear that slipped down her cheek. "You're a monster."

"Yes" he said heavily. He took a step towards her, looking down at her intently. "But you have nothing to fear from me. I promise you that." As he spoke he brought his hand to her face and gently wiped away another tear with his thumb.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "Then why do I feel so afraid?"

He removed his hand from her face with a sigh and watched unhappily as she slipped past him and out of the room.

* * *

Later that evening, he found that he was unable to expunge the image of her angry and upset from his mind, despite imbibing more than his usual share of scotch in the attempt. She was right – he _was_ a monster – and as such it had been many years since he had been moved by something as simple as a girl's tears. He felt utterly wrong-footed. She was currently under his care- _his command_ \- and yet she was dictating the terms of their relationship, such as it was. She was disgusted by him, and despite her precarious circumstances, had no compunction about letting him know it.

Draining his fifth glass, he decided against his better judgement to go to her, just to talk, to see if he could elicit a more favorable response. He knocked gently on her door, and hearing no response, turned the handle and entered. The bedroom was empty, but he could hear the sound of a bath being drawn and glanced towards the en-suite on the far side of the room. The door was ajar and from his current position he could see her leaning over the bath, trailing her hand in the water, her slim body cloaked in a dark blue robe. Suddenly she straightened up and slipped the robe off her shoulders, and he found himself with a full view of her naked body from the side.

If he had been in any doubt that the frustration he felt was fueled in part by the fact that he was experiencing an unexpected and disconcerting desire for the girl, it melted the instant he saw her stripped bare. His assessment of her the previous night, although favorable, had not done justice to the exquisite creature he saw before him now. She had long, graceful legs, and a round, peachy bottom he wanted to knead with his hands, to kiss, to leave his mark on the full, creamy flesh… Yet just as he felt his pants begin to grow tight with the sweet ache of desire, she turned to step into the bath and his breath caught in his chest.

Her torso was covered in bruises and welts of different shapes and sizes, and several cuts on her stomach and breasts that his staff had stitched up. Her body was a tapestry of pain and he an unwilling expert in reading the art it displayed. In his life he had been in fights, been beaten and even tortured, enough to recognize the signature stains left by a kick to the ribs, the thrash of a man's belt and the shallow knife cuts made by someone _playing_ with another human being.

He no longer wanted to mark her himself – the thought was suddenly abhorrent to him. Overwhelmed by a desire far more powerful than simple lust, he longed to make love to her, to soothe every hurt, take away every pain and fill her with the warmth and happiness he always wanted for her. But if there were hands in the world that could heal – that could cleanse the canvas of her body – they surely weren't his hands. Cold, scarred and weary. The hands of a killer. Shaken, he left the room silently and unnoticed by the girl whose body would haunt both his dreams and nightmares from that moment on.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Liz feels confused and guilty for enjoying Reddington's company. Growing suspicious after questioning him about her prisoner status, she accuses him of having a frightening hidden agenda. I own neither the characters nor the Blacklist and sadly make no money from writing about them. Please do review, you'll make my day :-)**

The next day, Liz set out to avoid Reddington. She was gripped with a gnawing sense of guilt for having slept well in the luxurious bed he had provided, for having eaten with him, for having enjoyed the food…for having smiled at him. It was somehow easier to be a prisoner when she was locked in a filthy cell, shunned and brutalized. She understood the simplicity of it. She knew how to act, how to survive for as long as possible. If she were to live, it would be because she escaped. If she died it would be because the bad guys won. But Reddington was playing by a different set of rules.

Despite her profiling skills she felt horribly ill-equipped to understand her current situation. Why was he doing this? Could she really believe he wouldn't hurt her? That he would let her go? Reddington was one of the most notorious criminals in recent American history. He was a ruthless sociopath; part of her was rightly afraid of him, and yet he made her feel welcome – even _safe_.

She decided to hide out in the library, a beautiful room with strange collections of books and objects that Reddington had correctly branded obscure. She found that many of the books were in Arabic, and there were shelves upon shelves of architectural blueprints, though for what she couldn't work out. Finally she found a thick volume entitled _20_ _th_ _Century American Poets_ and settled on a chaise to calm her churning mind.

It was there that Reddington found her hours later, entering the room silently and making her jump when she looked up and found him observing her with an almost fond look in his eye. He wore one of his customary vests, but his shirt sleeves were rolled up, giving him a relaxed air.

"Twentieth century American poets – who are you reading Lizzie?" he said enthusiastically as he tilted his head, making a show of reading the title. "Whitman? Robert Frost? Or my personal favorite, T.S. Eliot?"

"Gertrude Stein" she replied, watching him carefully.

Reddington's smile broadened. "Ah, a woman after my own heart. She said that we are so afraid of losing our moral sense that we are not willing to take it through anything more dangerous than a mud-puddle – wonderful way with words."

Liz curled her lip disdainfully. "I don't imagine that's a problem for you - I'm sure your moral sense has visited some very dangerous places….If you even have one" she added quietly.

She watched the corner of Reddington's mouth twitch into a ghost of a smile. "Contrary to popular belief I'm big fan of justice - but true justice is _rarely_ served by handing extraordinary powers to corrupt, ineffectual governments and their agencies. That moral code you swore to uphold is the same one that allows government contractors to supply arms to those who are subsequently detained and tortured without trial for crimes committed against said government. The world isn't run by democratically elected officials Lizzie, it's run by multinational corporations - you just don't know it."

She raised her eyebrows. "And you don't supply arms yourself? You haven't sold secrets to dangerous foreign powers? I've _studied_ you."

Reddington tutted dismissively. "Over twenty years and what the FBI truly knows about me would fit on a postcard."

"If you're trying to convince me you're not a bad person…"

"Oh I'm perfectly aware of what I am" he said smiling tightly. "But I also know that my crimes pale in comparison with those committed by your own government while their strings are pulled by faceless super-powers" He paused and regarded her thoughtfully, his fingers drumming on the back of an armchair. "Sometimes dragging our morality into the mud is the only way to get clean."

Liz shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "You know, Stein also said that the one thing that everybody truly wants is to be free" she said pointedly.

The changes were subtle, but Liz could see the tension work its way into Reddington's features. He clasped his hands and leant casually on the back of the armchair before he responded, his tone deceptively jovial.

"You know, I've always found freedom to be an exceptionally _nebulous_ concept. And as for what we want… it's the small pleasures in life that sustain us, when all else is uncertain. To that end, I had some _remarkable_ pastries brought in from a little shop in the East Village and I was rather hoping you'd join me – make me feel less guilty" he chuckled. "Do you have a sweet tooth, Lizzie? I do."

* * *

The pastries _were_ remarkable; exotic fruit tarts, beautifully glazed cakes and fondants all arranged in a sticky, colorful array on a cake stand in the sitting room along with fresh coffee and another vase of tea roses, this time a rich orange color shot through with streaks of Red. As they ate and talked, Liz found herself warming to the perplexing, charismatic man who had so gently and cheerfully kidnapped her three days ago.

It was clear from their conversations that he was someone with strong principles, even if they were constructed around a moral logic that was completely alien to her. He was enthusiastic, knowledgeable and occasionally even compassionate, his genuine concern for the suffering of others shining through the stories he told about the people he'd met all over the world. Rather than excusing herself after tea, Liz found herself spending the rest of the day with him, listening to him talk about his travels and even tentatively helping him cook in the evening.

By the time they had finished dinner she felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. It occurred to her that in denying her freedom he had somehow also _given_ it to her in a way she had never experienced before; in holding her captive he had absolved her of all responsibility and allowed her to let go of herself, whilst opening up new horizons and ways of thinking about everything. It was a heady feeling and she was becoming almost giddy in his presence.

Draining her wine glass she stood almost regretfully to bid him goodnight, but he seemed determined to draw the day out for as long as possible.

"The night's sill young Lizzie – I think we have time for a digestif. Will you join me in a scotch? Or perhaps you'd prefer something lighter – limoncello? Or there's a lovely cognac in the cabinet."

"Scotch is fine thanks" she lied. She accepted the glass he handed to her and took a sip, wincing as the harsh liquid burned her throat.

"It's an acquired taste" he twinkled at her. "I didn't go near the stuff for years after I sampled my father's beloved Jura at the tender age of 12 - 45% proof Lizzie, I was so ill he didn't have the heart to discipline me" he laughed softly.

She took another sip and looked up at him. "When I was 17 I went off the rails a bit – I had a bad boyfriend. He got in my head and I convinced myself he was everything. I started drinking and my dad caught me with a bottle of vodka. I thought he'd be furious but he just sat me down and got two glasses. We drank together and just talked. He was brilliant."

Reddington laughed fondly. "A father will do anything for his daughter" he paused thoughtfully and then laughed again, shaking his head. "Vodka, eh? I'm certain that didn't sit well with him." He looked away from her suddenly, taking a long pull from his glass.

Liz frowned. "It's funny you should say that – he never drinks anything stronger than beer, doesn't have the stomach for it. Although he did used to smoke like a chimney, that night included. He had a worse hangover than me in the morning."

Thinking of her dad, her earlier guilt returned with a vengeance. She looked uncomfortably at her glass and then at the luxurious surroundings with which she was becoming familiar. It frightened her immeasurably to think that she might become used to the place. To _Reddington._ He was so charismatic that he'd almost made her forget that she was a prisoner.

"I miss him" she ventured quietly. "Mr Re- Red – you said that you were going to let me go…when your business was done. I wonder if you could tell me when I'll be released" she finished awkwardly, her voice trembling slightly.

Reddington pursed his lips and refilled their glasses. "Are you uncomfortable here? Is there anything you need?" he asked in soothing tones.

She swallowed. "No, I'm very comfortable thank you. It's just… you must know that the FBI will be looking for me. They'll have contacted my dad – he'll be so worried."

He nodded tightly. "I'm sure he knows you're ok. A father knows" he added.

Reddington's response did little to assuage her growing sense of foreboding. "That's not an answer. When are you going to let me go? Please."

"I told you, there are certain matters that need to be dealt with" he replied firmly.

"What _matters_?"

"Lizzie" he said in a warning tone.

"No!" she said, standing up. "It's been days, and as far as I can tell you're not dealing with anything."

He was staring up at her intently now, but didn't respond. His silence filled her with dread.

"If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?" she said, her voice shaking.

She saw his eye twitch fractionally and silence stretched between them before he eventually sat back in his chair. "I won't lie to you."

"Ok. Are you really keeping me here to stop me going to the FBI?" she whispered.

She watched as he worked his jaw uncomfortably for a moment. "It's one of the reasons."

She felt an icy panic begin to grip her, panic and shame that she had been so relieved that he had been kind to her after her ordeal at the hands of the Lorcas that she had _wanted_ to believe he wouldn't hurt her, that he would let her go – even that he cared for her.

"Why are you really keeping me here? Tell me!"

He rose from his seat and approached her slowly. She stood her ground, breathing hard, watching him closely as he came to rest in front of her, his expression unfathomable.

"For your protection" he said finally in a low voice, looking down at her.

She frowned. "Protection? From what? The Lorcas are gone – you killed them, remember?" she added bitterly.

He shook his head. "I can't tell you. To do so would place you in grave danger."

"Bull!" she said, a wave of nausea rising in the pit of her stomach and tears pricking her eyes. "The only person I need protecting from is you. You never had any intention of letting me go, did you?" She gestured around her with a shaking hand. "These clothes, afternoon tea, this grand house…this is all part of some twisted fantasy of yours. You have to tell yourself you're doing this to protect me."

Reddington looked pained, his mouth twitching in distaste. "That's not true."

She stepped back from him, her chin crumpled. "How does it end? What are you going to do?"

He tutted in frustration. "I assure you you're perfectly safe. Now let's finish our drinks. There's no need to spoil a lovely evening with unsavory accusations."

"You're kidding, right?! You expect me to drink with you like we're friends? Equals? You're holding me here against my will! I was actually starting to trust you. My god, what was I thinking!"

She watched his eyes harden, his mouth set in a thin line. She was getting to him.

"Lizzie calm down."

"No" she said, marching toward the door. "You're a sick, twisted man and I'm done playing whatever game of yours this is! You can force me to stay here but don't expect me to play along."

"Lizzie" he said sharply, but she had banged the door shut behind her. Shortly afterwards he heard her footsteps on the stairs, and then the faint sound of her bedroom door slamming.

When she got to her room her mind was spinning. She felt like a doll in a play house, being manipulated into a game to which she didn't know the rules. Every scenario she thought of was worse than the last. He was a cold-blooded killer, and judging by his performance over the last few days, one who enjoyed toying with his victims. Worse, he'd even made her start to believe his lies. At the end of the day, she'd been a profiler long enough to know that women who are kidnapped by men rarely survive. No one was coming for her – Reddington had eluded the authorities for over twenty years. She reached a decision; she had to get out of there. Tonight.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Liz tries to escape, and has to bear the uncomfortable consequences when things don't go according to plan. Disclaimed as ever. Please do review! :-)**

She ran to the window and tried again to open it as she had the first night, but it was no use. She already knew that every door and window in the house was locked and bolted like a fortress, as though he'd somehow anticipated her superior lock-picking skills. Peering out into the gloom she could just make out the wall which surrounded the grounds, and the figure of a guard doing rounds around the perimeter. If she timed it right she could slip past him and climb over the wall, but none of that was any good if she couldn't get outside. She watched the guard move round the side of the house, her vision obstructed slightly by the leaves of a thick creeper snaking past her window and down. If only she could get to it… Her heart began to pound. Perhaps she could. _The roof garden_. It was a long-shot, but she'd take what she could get.

She listened at the bedroom door, and it seemed like hours before she finally heard Reddington's footsteps on the stairs and the click of his bedroom door. She slipped silently from the room and crept to the back of the house. The garden was accessed via a short spiral staircase on the top floor, which came out at the corner of the roof. She gasped when she saw it. She'd assumed that it would be a balcony of sorts with a few pot plants, but even in the dark she could see that someone had gone to the trouble of creating a small paradise up there. Wooden arches loomed at her in the blackness, and she could hear the soft trickle of a water feature. There was no wall, or enclosure of any kind.

Shaking, she walked right to the edge and looked out over the surrounding scene. The house appeared to be isolated with large grounds, although she could see lights from the city in the distance. She felt a little dizzy as she looked down to the gravel below. Walking along the perimeter of the roof, her heart leapt when she realized she'd found what she was looking for. The creeper that went past her bedroom window was attached to a wooden trellis that stretched from the roof to the ground. Almost as good as a ladder, she thought. _If you're a crazy person_.

Her heart racing, she knelt down and grabbed hold of the thick wooden structure - it seemed sturdy enough. She watched as the guard disappeared round the side of the building again, and seizing her moment, she tried to steady her shaking hands and stepped over the edge. The first few steps were agonizing; her stomach lurched as she looked down and she was terrified the trellis might come away from the wall at any moment. Her hands gripped the wood so hard she felt splinters digging in, and the wet leaves of the vine clung to her face as she moved. With each step down she pressed her body as close to the building as she could, praying that the trellis would support her as it creaked under her weight.

She took another step but slipped suddenly as the toe of her boot slid on wet leaves that had stuck to the wood. She cried out, grabbing desperately at the wood with her hands, a branch of the vine stinging as it scraped along her cheek. Adrenaline pumping she regained her footing and clung to the side of the building, hoping desperately that no one had heard her yell. For a moment she could hear nothing except the sound of leaves rustling in the wind and her own pounding heart. Then she heard footsteps running on the gravel below and before long she was blinded by the beam of a flashlight. _Oh crap, no no no…_

"Jesus Christ! Just hold on Miss, I'm coming."

She looked down and saw the guard begin to climb up the trellis towards her. There was no point in trying to fight up there – they might both fall. Cursing, she clung to the wall and waited for him to come up. He reached for her and she pulled away, the trellis creaking.

"Now come on Miss, stay calm. We're gonna do this together ok? Nice and easy, one foot then the other. Let's get you down from here."

As he spoke he reached out and patted her arm reassuringly, and they scaled down the building together. When they finally hit the ground she wasted no time. The moment he let go of her she jammed her elbow into his face as hard as she could and ran full pelt towards the perimeter, ran for her life – but it wasn't enough.

She heard heavy boots thumping on the gravel behind her and before she knew it she was hurtling face first towards the ground. The wind was knocked out of her and she felt a sharp pain in her stomach where the nurses had stitched up a cut. Panicking, she struggled ineffectually as the guard knelt over her legs and secured her hands behind her back.

"What d'you go and do that for?" he said breathlessly. "Now I gotta tie you up and he ain't gonna like that, not one bit."

As he spoke she felt him lean back and secure a second set of ties around her ankles, immobilizing her completely. She swore as he picked her up, putting her over his shoulder like a roll of carpet and carrying her into the house. Her abdomen throbbed where her stitches had been wrenched. Finally, he deposited her red-faced and indignant on a sofa in the sitting room.

"I'm sorry" he breathed, "but I've gotta get Mr Reddington. Wait here - and don't try anything" he said as he left the room.

Liz's heart was thundering in her chest as she waited on the sofa. She was positioned at an odd angle, her bottom close to the edge and her shoulders leaning back against the cushions. She had to strain to hold her head up so that she wasn't just staring at the ceiling. It made her feel vulnerable and exposed.

She tried to move but the cable ties bit into her wrists behind her back and she smacked her bound feet against the floor in desperation. She had failed. She'd broken the rules, and the fantasy. He would surely kill her now. She watched the door of the living room nervously, her skin prickling; she could hear voices in the hallway and knew it wouldn't be long.

Finally, the door opened and Reddington entered, closing the door quietly behind him. The guard had clearly got him out of bed – he wore a long, luxurious robe in a rich, deep blue with thick lapels, and she could see a peak of corresponding navy pajamas underneath. For a moment he stood motionless by the door, just staring at her. He looked white as a sheet and she knew that she must look a picture too after being wrestled by the guard on the ground. She felt like a wild animal caught in a trap as he observed her, his eyes burning and his jaw working as though he was struggling with some internal battle.

She tensed as he began to walk towards her, and as he approached she could see that his lower lip was trembling. He paused when he was less than a foot from her, and stood staring down at her, his expression dark. She expected him shout - to be violent - and was surprised that when he finally spoke his tone was low and full of concern.

"Elizabeth what were you thinking?" His chest heaved as he spoke, his breathing shallow. "What if you'd fallen? You could have been seriously injured. You could have been _killed"._ He ran a hand exasperatedly down his face. When he spoke again his tone, whilst still quiet, had picked up a dark fury that terrified her. "I knew you were impetuous, but _this_...This was a _staggeringly_ foolish stunt Elizabeth. You were reckless to the point of suicidal and I _won't tolerate it_."

Liz's mind was swirling with fear and confusion. The sight of Raymond Reddington truly angry filled her with dread, but his concern over the incident wasn't that she had almost escaped; he was worried about _her_. It didn't make sense. She trembled as she looked up at him. "I'm sorry…"

"I hope you _are_ sorry" he shot back. "Not only did you endanger your own life, but that of my employee" he continued, pointing his finger towards the door. "A good man risked his neck to save you tonight, a man with a family. And as if that wasn't bad enough, after he had helped you, you proceeded to attack him! I'm utterly ashamed of you."

She felt a terrible pang of guilt – it was true that the guard had tried to help her. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone" she ventured quietly.

He nodded. "I think you owe him an apology" he said, walking to the door and opening it. "Come in Baz. Miss Scott has something to say to you."

Liz's head was swimming. She was supposed to apologize like a child? They were holding her captive – so why did she feel so guilty? The guard came in and she got a proper look at him for the first time; a tall man, older than she imagined, with graying hair and kind eyes. He had a bruise forming on his face where she had elbowed him.

In her daze she paused too long and Reddington snapped at her "Elizabeth!"

She swallowed. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to…I guess I panicked" she finished awkwardly.

The guard smiled sympathetically. "It's alright Miss, I understand. Just try and keep out of trouble from now on."

Reddington turned to him. "Thank you Baz, you can go. Take the night off – go be with your lovely wife. Send her my regards, and tell her you'll be expecting a sizable bonus this month."

"Thank you Mr Reddington, that's very generous. Are you sure you can manage?"

Reddingon turned and gave Liz a dark look. "Quite sure."

She watched helplessly as the guard left the room – she wanted to beg him not to leave her alone with Reddington, but it was too late; he had gone, and in any case they were both acting as though they were the reasonable ones, and it was she who had done something awful.

She looked up at him. "What are you going to do?" she whispered.

"I know what I ought to do" he said, his tone dropping to a menacingly deep pitch. "If you weren't too old I'd spank the living daylights out of you." He shook his head. "Lizzie… You have no idea how painful it is for me to see you like this. Filthy and tied up like an animal."

Liz was scandalized, and felt color flood to her cheeks. She was suddenly overwhelmed with an unpleasant and visceral memory of being caught sneaking out after curfew as a kid, but Sam had never _spanked_ her. Besides, there was nothing paternal about the way Reddington behaved towards her. He had been exceedingly courteous and gentlemanly throughout her stay, but she'd caught herself thinking that intensity with which he observed her and his tone of voice had an almost erotic quality.

It wasn't her fault that she was a mess, but she felt a gnawing sense of shame; the disappointment that radiated from him was unbearable, and a part of her was begging to please him, to stop him looking at her with such evident distaste. Confused and unsure of what to say she couldn't even hold his gaze. She looked at the floor and shivered involuntarily, tiredness, fear and the chill of the night air catching up with her.

Reddington observed this with a frown. "You're freezing." He slipped his robe off and wrapped it gently around her shoulders, and as he did so she noticed a smattering of dark chest hair visible under his pajama jacket. He sat right beside her on the sofa, making her wish fervently that she wasn't completely immobilized by the ties on her wrists and ankles.

"Is that better?" he asked gently, and she nodded mutely. As she did so, he reached out and cupped her chin, his eyes scanning her face and narrowing as he took in the scratch on her cheek. He pressed her cheekbone gently with his thumb, making her wince.

He sighed. "We need to get you cleaned up. If I remove these restraints are you going to behave yourself?"

She nodded earnestly and he suddenly caught her face between his palms, holding her head still.

"I mean it Elizabeth. You are never ever to do anything like this again. _Promise_ me."

Liz's heart thundered in her chest; she felt chilled to the core, despite the warmth of his hands on her face. "I promise."

"Good." He seemed to relax then, and she watched dumbfounded as he produced a small blade from a sheath at his ankle and proceeded to cut the ties binding her wrists and ankles. Once free she sagged with relief and he motioned to her to rise, walking her out of the room and up the stairs with his hand resting at the small of her back.

When they reached her bedroom he disappeared into the en-suite and returned with the supply kit left by the medical team.

"Sit down." He gestured towards the bed and she obeyed mutely, staying perfectly still as he cleaned the scratch on her cheek.

As soon as he was done she stood up to put some distance between them but his hand caught her wrist.

"Elizabeth wait" he said sharply. "You didn't tell me you were injured elsewhere."

She looked down and saw blood beginning to seep through her sweater.

"It's nothing" she mumbled. "I just pulled a stitch that's all."

She tried to pull away but his hand tightened to a vice grip on her wrist. She froze as he stood and unceremoniously pulled her sweater right up, revealing her bruised abdomen and the ragged, bleeding cut just to the left of her belly button. He hissed, as though the sight of it made him angry.

"Lie down on the bed" he said gruffly.

Liz could feel the panic rising inside her again. "What? No! Why?"

Reddington closed his eyes for a moment; when he responded he sounded tired and frustrated. "Because that needs to be cleaned and re-stitched and I can't do it with you standing up. Please do as I ask."

She swallowed numbly before slipping her boots off neatly and climbing on the bed into a supine position, her hands balled into fists at her sides and her exposed stomach taut and quivering with tension. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of him unwrapping a suturing kit. Suddenly she felt something cold on her skin making her gasp; her hands flew to her stomach and she craned her neck to see what was happening.

"It's just a numbing gel Lizzie, please move your hands" he said tersely, without looking at her.

Reluctantly she put her hands back by her sides and tried to imagine she was somewhere else -somewhere safe – but she couldn't escape the feel of his hands on her skin, the brush of his thumb or the sleeve of his pajamas as he worked. Without warning, he began to suture and she cried out quietly when she felt a sharp pinch. Her hand went automatically to her stomach again, trying to push his hand away.

"Lizzie" he growled. "This will be over sooner if you stop interfering." He sighed heavily and paused before speaking again. "Put your hands up by your head and keep them there."

Blood rushed in her ears and she began to see black spots dancing in her vision. "No please, I don't need to do that, I promise I won't interfere again. I know you're trying to help me" she finished desperately.

But he only shook his head. "Do it now please, Elizabeth".

Biting back tears she lifted her hands to rest on the pillow that supported her head, and closed her eyes as he continued to suture the cut in silence. She had never felt more vulnerable in her life, not even in the harrowing moment that she had received the wound he was now patiently tending to. Dirty and tearful, she was lying exposed in front of him and he was treating her like a child or an animal that he was tasked with caring for. It was excruciating.

Mercifully he worked quickly, and she was incredibly relieved when she felt the bed rise under her as he stood up.

"All done" he said wearily.

She pulled her sweater down and sat up, wiping the moisture from her eyes. "Thank you" she whispered.

He surprised her by smiling warmly at that, the motion underscoring the deep creases around his eyes. "You're welcome" he responded softly. "Now tidy yourself up and get some sleep."

With that he exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him and leaving her in his robe. Shivering, she wrapped the luxurious material around her, inhaling his uniquely masculine scent and wondering whether her assessment of him could have been wrong after all.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Liz and Reddington deal with the aftermath of her escape attempt. Tensions come to a head and their relationship takes a turn. Tension, violence and a smutty Reddington fantasy. Rated M, NSFW! As ever I don't own the Blacklist and I love reviews so much, they keep me writing :-)**

The next morning she woke late, and sore. The memories of the previous night came flooding back horribly, and her eyes shot open when she stretched out and felt silk sliding along her limbs. She had slept in his robe. She could smell him all around her. Looking about her room she half expected him to be there, but she was alone; he'd cared for her, gently and thoroughly, and left her to sleep. If possible, she was even more confused and embarrassed today than she had been the night before. She rose from the bed and tried the door. She thought it would be locked, but it wasn't.

She washed and dressed quickly, and went to find him, reasoning that after the night's events she needed to establish where she stood. She ignored the tiny voice inside her that said she wanted to see him. That she had enjoyed sleeping in his robe. That would be utterly ridiculous, and definitely twisted under these circumstances. Under any circumstances.

She found him in the sitting room at the desk, thumbing through some papers. He looked up and smiled as she entered, but she noticed him casually place a file on top of the document he had been reading.

"Lizzie – I trust you caught up on lost sleep."

She cringed inwardly and watched as he stepped out from behind the desk and came to rest in front of it. He was immaculately dressed as ever in a dark suit and vest, and wore reading glasses which he removed and tossed lightly on the desk behind him. It was like being in the principal's office.

"Yes" she said, her tongue feeling heavy. "I…I expected…" She licked her lips while she tried to figure out the best way to say what she was thinking.

He looked at her questioningly, inclining his head. "What did you expect, Lizzie" he pressed.

"I guess I thought I'd be locked in or something. I didn't think you'd trust me to wonder about after yesterday."

Reddington smiled wolfishly. "Well let's see. I could always handcuff you to that bed of yours for the remainder of your stay… But I'm sure that won't be necessary."

Liz's cheeks burned scarlet and she tasted the metallic flavor of blood in her mouth as her teeth sunk into her lip. _Was he joking? Or had he just threatened her?_

"Although needless to say" he continued, "the roof garden is now out of bounds. You'll ask me if you want some fresh air and I'll be happy to escort you" he said breezily.

An acerbic response formulated in her head but she thought better of it. How she hated him for making her feel this way.

"You're angry with me" she stated plainly.

"Why should I be angry?" he responded rhetorically with a plastic smile. "Now if that's all, I have some paperwork that requires my attention. There's a tray for you in the breakfast room – I imagine you must be famished after your little adventure."

With that he turned back to the desk, dismissing her, and she crept from the room with anger and humiliation gnawing uncomfortably at her insides.

* * *

Reddington gripped the desk and exhaled as he heard the door close behind him. Over the years he had learned to bury any strong emotions, maintaining a finely-honed persona with a pre-designed range of feeling and behavior that served him well for interactions in his world. Yet in the past few days she had managed to disrupt that persona on multiple occasions, eliciting responses from him that were beyond his control…and that which was beyond his control was dangerous.

She was right – he was angry with her. Further, he disliked the facets of his character that she seemed to magnify, in particular the fact that the more she demonstrated fear and disdain for him, the more enjoyment he derived from intimidating her, from exploiting the power he had over her. _You're a bastard Reddington_ , he thought bleakly.

He stared scornfully at the files on the desk, each one containing the resume of a highly gifted yet utterly innocuous-looking operative courtesy of the Major. He was supposed to choose a protector for her from amongst these psychopathic pretty-boys, although after last night it seemed that she would need protecting from herself as much as anyone else. It inexplicably needled him that whomever he selected would get to know the girl far better than he; this person would learn her habits, her interests, her hopes… her desires.

He recalled her telling him defiantly that he was the only person from whom she needed protecting. It stung, and more so after the events of last night. He knew that her fear of him was what made her try something so dangerous, and it unnerved him immensely that he hadn't predicted or prevented the action she had taken. It bothered him too that part of him wanted to punish her for being afraid of him, and conversely, for having frightened _him_ with her daredevil stunt. How would he have faced Sam if something had happened? How would he have faced himself?

* * *

Dinner that evening was an awkward affair. Having approached him so tentatively that morning, she now seemed determined to aggravate him, apparently antagonized by the cool reception with which he had greeted her that morning. _So the games begin_ , he thought, and quashed the treacherous voice in his head which suggested that he enjoyed the challenge she presented.

She began by being half an hour late to the dining room. He had made his feelings on the importance of punctuality perfectly clear to her from the outset, and yet she purposefully flouted his instructions. She had appeared just as he was concluding that she didn't intend to join him at all, and had offered no apology. She wore a fetching sheer white silk blouse, and, if he wasn't mistaken, a slick of a soft pink lipstick and perhaps even a hint of mascara. That was new. He was well aware that a selection of cosmetics had been provided along with the toiletries in her suite, but this was the first time she had worn make-up in front of him, however subtle it was. It felt like a victory.

Despite her tardiness he remained courteous, although his attempts at conversation were met with sullen silence for the best part of the meal. Finally, he sat back and smiled smugly at her.

"I must say your icy temperament has been especially bracing this evening. Is it at all possible that your sour mood has something to do with the fact that you're angry with yourself for having attempted such a monumentally foolish escape? Or are you merely disappointed by the failure of your mission" he smirked.

He watched, charmed as her cheeks flushed pink, a unique hue of rage and humiliation.

"This isn't a game" she spat "this is my life!"

"Of course it's a game" he drawled smoothly. "Here you are now, testing boundaries, assessing risk…planning your next move."

She shoved her chair back and stood up angrily. "You're pathetic" she hissed.

He looked at her impassively, although when he spoke his lazy tone had hardened a little. "I'm an extraordinarily patient man. There are very few people who have the capacity to rile me Lizzie - I wouldn't advise you to join their ranks."

"You talk to me as though I'm a child!"

"Could that be because you're acting-out like a child? Because that's what you are, isn't it Lizzie" he said softly "- a frightened little girl full of bravado to conceal the fact that she's terrified."

"If I'm so difficult to be around then why don't you just get rid of me?" she shot back belligerently.

His face darkened and he rose from his seat abruptly, a vein throbbing noticeably at his temple. "Is that honestly what you would say to someone you consider to be dangerous? How am I supposed to let you go back out there knowing that you exercise such poor judgement? That you haven't the first idea how to defend yourself?"

She stormed away from the dining table towards the desk on the other side of the room, leaning on it and facing away from him in a show of catching her breath. He followed, but when he reached her she spun round and he felt the prick of a blade at his carotid as she held a letter opener to his neck, a defiant look on her face.

"Put it down Elizabeth" he said quietly. "I won't ask again." Other than his eyes growing sharper, he barely flinched in response to the blade at his throat, his breathing and tone calm and even.

She hated that it hadn't rattled him. "Still think I can't defend myself?" she said confidently, increasing the pressure on his neck a little.

His hand came out of nowhere, and in a second he had twisted her arm behind her back and pushed her down onto the desk, one hand thrust firmly between her shoulder blades and the other gripping her wrist.

"I think if you were serious about defending yourself you would have done it" he growled. "If I'm as dangerous as you say I am you shouldn't have hesitated Lizzie - _never_ make threats you're not willing make good on" he said gruffly, pressing her twisted arm down further in an attempt to get her to drop the blade.

"You're hurting me!" It came out as more of a whine than she intended and she rolled her eyes at herself.

She heard the soft rustle of his vest as he leant down, and then his voice, low and calm in her ear. "I'm not hurting you Lizzie, you're perfectly fine. If I wanted to hurt you, you'd know about it."

A rush of anger surged through her and she tried with everything she had to twist her body round, bracing her foot against the floor for leverage. She thoroughly intended to spin round and knee him in the crotch, but as she struggled he pushed more of his weight down on her and used his knee to separate her legs to immobilize her, his hand firm on her wrist.

"That's enough!" he breathed. He didn't exactly shout, but there was something in his tone that shocked her into submission.

He felt her grow still under him and he suddenly became very aware of the position in which he held her, bent over the desk, her ass now pressed up against his groin. He couldn't help but momentarily entertain the unlikely notion that she might desire him as he did her. He imagined reaching around and undoing her pants, peeling her underwear down and taking her right there, his hand planted between her shoulder blades, angling her on the desk for perfect access.

But no, he thought then. He wouldn't rush the moment, and he certainly wouldn't be rough. She was too inexperienced and delicate for that. He'd undress her slowly; work her up until she was quivering. He'd have her sit naked on his lap as he caressed her, her youthful excitement soaking through his pants as his cock strained to be released, aching to satisfy her.

He only entertained these thoughts for a few seconds - a momentary lapse - but it was long enough. He was now sporting a throbbing and unmistakable erection which was currently pressed against her ass. He felt her whole body tense in his grip, the air around them crackling with tension that had nothing to do with the fact that she'd held a blade to his neck moments earlier.

Clearing his throat, he tightened his grip on her wrist just-so, and her fingers finally slackened on the blade. Removing it from her hand, he released her and stepped back several good paces, schooling his features as one completely in control of himself and the situation. She turned slowly to face him, her cheeks pink and eyes glittering. He held up the letter opener, gripping the blade between his forefinger and thumb. "I hope you won't be making a habit of coming at me with sharp objects" he said evenly.

"I could say the same thing to you" she breathed, and he let out an abrupt laugh as the implications of her riposte hit him.

He felt beads of sweat gather on the back of his neck, but he recovered quickly, rolling his tongue in his mouth as a wry smile formed on his lips. "In that case might I suggest a truce. We agree to leave each other… unmolested."

She scanned his face for any sign of deceit and, finding none, nodded slowly in agreement.

" _Splendid_ " he responded, smiling beatifically. "Now, when I reach an accord I like to seal the arrangement with a drink," he said, moving to the liquor cabinet.

"I think I know the real reason you're keeping me here" she said quietly.

"Do you" he responded guardedly.

"I may not know much about your business, but I've read about you – you walked out on your family years ago, and I can't imagine you have friends. You're _lonely_." Her tone was more one of pity than of spite. He didn't like it.

"I have you though, don't I" he said cryptically, allowing the comment to hang there for a moment before smiling. "And let's not forget Dembe. He is family."

"Your bodyguard?" she asked incredulously.

Reddington chuckled softly. "Ahhh, Dembe is much more than a bodyguard to me." He motioned for her to sit and she reluctantly obliged. He poured them both a drink and handed a glass to her before settling in an armchair opposite her. "You know, I found Dembe many years ago in a cell not dissimilar to the one in which I found you. He'd survived for eight years in a squalid brothel in Nairobi, beaten, abused and angry. He'd been left to die. So I took him. Made him well. He is very dear to me."

"You rescued him, like you did me…and he's still with you" she said slowly, panic flitting across her features.

Reddington laughed gently. "No no, don't worry. I saw to his education. Sent him out into the world – it was his choice to come back to me."

He was pleased and relieved to see her relax after that, and more so when her curiosity piqued as he began to tell her more about Dembe and their travels in Africa. He dared to hope that perhaps their truce would hold - that she was beginning to understand that she had no reason to fear him.

As their conversation continued, he pondered a strange thought in the back of his mind. Unlike many men his age he was not generally drawn to younger women, especially not those unfortunate girls he often met in his line of work. It wasn't uncommon for criminal king-pins and gangsters to have a young female entourage, coked-up baby dolls frightened out of their wits, or so damaged that they enjoyed being used and hurt.

At the conclusion of some of his more unsavory business dealings he was occasionally offered the company of a young girl or two, some of them barely out of training bras, dressed in provocative lingerie that looked like costumes on them, their advances fumbling and inept. He almost always politely refused this, and on the rare occasions on which it wouldn't be prudent to decline, he would pay the girl handsomely not to reveal that the formidable concierge of crime had sat quietly in a chair and played solitaire on his burner phone, watching over her while she had gotten some much needed sleep for an hour.

But the girl who sat before him unconsciously stroking her scarred palm was nothing like those poor wretches who smelled like fake strawberry and fear. She had fire, and wit. She was mistrustful, sharp, unpredictable and unmanageable… and he was captivated by her. His thoughts about her shot straight to his groin uncontrollably, as though he were a teenage boy again.

The sooner he could get a protective detail set up and get her out of here, the better. Yet that was what concerned him the most. It was then for the first time that he acknowledged the truth that had been creeping at the edges of his consciousness: he didn't want her to leave.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Reddington is reluctant to release Lizzie, but feels guilty when he realizes she'll be spending her birthday in his custody. He decides to make her day as lovely as possible, but is plagued by his feelings for her. Is there such as thing as dark fluff? Birthday parties and glitter with a side of imprisonment/obsession? Disclaimed! Please do review – I love them so :-)**

Several days passed without further incident, and Reddington was alarmed at how quickly he had come to crave her company. He owed his success in large part to his ability to read people, to gauge their reactions and manipulate their responses, and without really acknowledging what he was doing, he began to memorize every smile she had given him, every blush, and the comment or gesture with which he had elicited it from her. He treasured those moments, and as the days went by he became more and more convinced that she was softening towards him. He could feel that she was holding back though, and was determined to erode her defensive barriers. However much she gave him – a smile or a sweet little laugh – it wasn't enough. He knew it was time to let her go, and certainly long past the few days he had intended her to stay with him. But he wanted more.

It was for that reason that another day passed, and another, and the files for the Major's candidates for her protective detail lay neglected in his desk drawer. Right now at least, she was his and his alone. He did however succumb to an uncharacteristic pang of guilt when it occurred to him that her birthday was imminent. She would be forced to spend it away from her friends and away from Sam because of his selfish desire to keep her for just a little longer. He quashed the uncomfortable thought, and focused instead on the pleasure of being more than an invisible benefactor for one of her birthdays. Just one, he thought, out of so many – it couldn't hurt. He would make it lovely for her.

When she was a child he used to send a gift every year which Sam would place in the pile of his own gifts to her. It was the only way it could be done, and he accepted that Sam should take the credit as long as he was provided with photos of her on her birthday and a report as to how his gift was received. He smiled, remembering the preposterous giant yellow teapot playhouse he'd sent for her fifth birthday. She'd been afraid of it at first, but had soon grown to love it.

Things became more complicated as she grew older. He'd wanted to send more substantial gifts, but couldn't without raising questions, especially after she left home. He'd settled for marking her birthday in more abstract ways, such as ensuring that her college societies received an endowment on her birthday. One year, in a pique of whimsical profligacy, he'd had a star named after her - 558932/df-Elizabeth. Of course the damn thing impossible to see, and so when he looked at the night sky and saw the North Star, he imagined that it was her star, guiding him home as it had sailors for hundreds of years.

This year he knew exactly what he was going to give her. He'd wanted desperately for her to have it on her eighteenth birthday, but there was no way to give it to her then without drawing suspicion. The time had finally come – never let it be said that Raymond Reddington was not a patient man. He had his associate in Moscow retrieve it from the safety deposit box in which it had been stored for over twenty years, fly over and deliver it to him personally.

* * *

On the morning of her birthday, Liz woke with a sinking feeling. It wasn't as though she had made any birthday plans before she was taken; she hadn't been good at keeping up with many college friends, and her colleagues at the bureau resented her success. Still, it highlighted the reality of her current situation – she had been kidnapped, and would not be able to celebrate her birthday.

It was with puzzlement then, that she entered the breakfast room and found the table festooned with delicate silver and lace streamers, vases of fragrant pink roses and lilies, champagne, tray upon tray of pastries and stacks of colorful macaroons.

Looking around with her lips parted in surprise, she spotted Reddington standing beside her chair with a knowing smile on his face.

"Happy birthday Lizzie" he said softly. "Buck's Fizz?"

"I don't understand…" she began.

"Well I know it's a little early to start drinking, but it _is_ a special occasion…" he twinkled at her.

"How did you know?"

"I have my ways" he responded smoothly, handing her a champagne flute which she accepted hesitantly.

"Thank you" she said guardedly. "Did you tap your pastry source in the East Village again?"

Reddington smiled smugly. "No, this time I tapped my source in Paris" he replied, laughing as her eyes widened. "Some occasions require nothing less."

Their extravagant breakfast was interrupted when a man in a suit entered the room and whispered in Reddington's ear, causing him to frown.

"Do excuse me Lizzie, I shall return momentarily."

Outside the door Reddington accepted a cell phone from his employee and moved to the library. He closed the door behind him before putting the phone to his ear.

"Sam! To what do I owe the pleasure so soon after our last conversation?" He inwardly cursed himself for his snippy comment, but Sam's call had broken his rapport with the girl and stirred the guilt that had settled in his stomach.

"Cut the crap Ray, you know why I'm calling. It's her birthday – what do you think you're doing? Why is she still there?"

An irritated expression crossed Reddington's face and he began to feel warm. "I'm perfectly aware of that Sam, and I assure you that while it's regrettably necessary for her to remain, she'll have a most pleasant day. I hope you're not questioning my motives after all these years my friend" he said pointedly.

There was a pause at the other end of the line before Sam spoke again, his words a little slurred. "Is she frightened? Don't scare her Ray, please."

His words twisted in Reddington's stomach like a knife. "What do you take me for, Sam. She's perfectly fine. She's an FBI agent for goodness sake, not a child."

Sam let out a strange little laugh. "Exactly. She knows what goes bump in the night now, just like we do, eh Red."

Reddington shook his head, a cold fury creeping over him. Added to that he was also concerned – this didn't sound like his friend. "Sam, you sound drunk" he said testily. "Is everything alright?"

"I need her, Ray. I need my butterball. Let me speak to her." His friend's normally stoic voice had dropped to a whine now, and it sickened him.

Usually a master of controlling his emotions, Reddington felt unpleasant spikes of anger and shame flare inside him. How _dare_ Sam do this! How _dare_ he insinuate that he might pose a threat to her. He'd had her for over twenty-three years, and he couldn't let him have a few days with her? Had Sam noticed what a beautiful young woman she had become? Reddington took a sharp breath, troubled by the direction his own thoughts were taking. He'd never consciously felt jealous of Sam before. Such a short time with her and he had already grown so possessive. He needed to end this conversation.

"Sam you know you can't speak to her while she's here" he said with a calmness he didn't feel. "She can't find out about her past. You'll get her back soon enough."

"Ray-"

"I need to go" Reddington said in a clipped tone. "Goodbye Sam."

He tossed the phone on the table, and took a few deep, calming breaths through his nose. He needed a drink. He smiled then as he remembered the girl in the next room, sipping champagne and savoring Ladurée macaroons on her delicate tongue.

* * *

Nerves loosened by the champagne, they spent a pleasant day together in a delightful haze, sharing stories about past birthdays. He listened in delight as she recounted her own version of the monstrous yellow teapot and awkward teen parties, and relished making her laugh in spite of herself with his own tales of birthdays spent in Afghani opium dens or fleeing rebels in the southern Sahara with nothing but a set of ornamental butter knives and 5 kilos of premium Moroccan hashish.

The truth was that the only birthday he really celebrated each year was hers; that she was alive to see her birthdays was his greatest achievement, while his own birthdays served as little more than a bitter reminder of his own egregious downfall.

In the late afternoon he donned an apron over his charcoal suit and set about whipping up a birthday dinner to remember. He wanted the perfect setting to give her his gift. To most people, having the dinner catered for them would be considered luxury, but for him the guiltiest of pleasures was opening another bottle and enlisting her help in the kitchen. He cherished the domesticity of it, the pure joy of preparing a meal for her as he watched the flush of a sublime 2003 Lafite creep into her cheeks after he topped up her glass. She was getting a little tipsy and he knew he was encouraging it, determined as he was to relax her, to get through the last of those barriers.

When the time came, she announced with a playful look that she was going to change for dinner and emerged in a midnight blue cocktail dress that robbed him of speech for a good minute. Of course, he had included an evening dress in his inventory, but that did nothing to lessen his surprise and delight at her graceful form swathed in the dark silk. Exposing her arms and shoulders, the dress also revealed the yellowish remains of the bruises she had sustained at the hands of the Lorcas. It pained him to see it, but he took comfort in the fact that she was healing.

After a moment she drew her arms around herself self-consciously. His silence seemed to make her insecure and he was brought back to earth by an almost shy "what do you think?" from her.

"I think Aphrodite herself would burn with jealousy" he responded quite seriously. "There is perhaps something missing though. Come and sit down" he commanded with a small smile.

She did as he asked, and he removed a velvet box from his jacket pocket. He opened it in front of her to reveal a diamond and sapphire necklace, the jewels twisted into the most intricate and delicate leaf shapes designed to grace the wearer's neck like an exquisite sparkling vine.

He watched her reaction carefully, hungrily, observing her features glide through shock, confusion, and pleasure, before settling on an uncertain expression whereby she chewed her lower lip adorably.

She looked up at him. "I…this is so beautiful – really the most beautiful necklace I've ever seen – but I don't see how I can accept it" she said, sounding troubled. "I'm an FBI agent, I can't-"

Reddington shook his head dismissively and removed the necklace carefully from its box before slipping it confidently around her neck, gently sweeping her hair aside to fasten the catch. She seemed to hold her breath as he touched her, but she either didn't dare or want to protest further.

"Simply stunning" he murmured, looking down at her. "Rumor has it that this necklace once belonged to Tsarina Alexandra herself. After the Russian revolution, jewelry and other valuable commodities were seized, and while many were sold to support the manufacture of farming technologies, others vanished and eventually ended up in the hands of a multitude of organizations, including the KGB would you believe. Anyway, I can assure you Lizzie, this necklace is rightfully yours. The paperwork is all in order, if that's what you're concerned about."

She looked at him in puzzled wonderment as he led her to the dining room.

They ate by candlelight, and as he looked at the softly glittering jewels adorning the graceful turn of her throat he thought briefly of her mother, of Katerina Rostova, to whom the necklace had once belonged. The girl was certainly as beautiful as her mother, but despite her wit and guile there was an innocence about her which Katerina never had, and which he found utterly enchanting. She had allowed herself to be swept up in the birthday fantasy that he had created and had trusted him enough to become inebriated.

After dinner he watched her closely as she sank giggling onto a chaise in the sitting room, her eyes more than a little unfocussed. He quietly acknowledged to himself that he had done this to her, however unconsciously, setting the scene from the beginning with the champagne breakfast, and refreshing her glass at regular intervals. It wasn't unusual for him to engage his business associates and adversaries in this way – how many arms deals had been brokered to his benefit after the other party had proven themselves unable to hold their liquor – but she wasn't an adversary, or an arms dealer with whom he had wanted the upper hand. She was a girl, and he had never desired anything or anyone as much as he did her in that moment.

She laughed suddenly, breaking him from his reverie. "You know one of my favorite things about today?"

"Tell me" he said softly.

"Your apron!" she exclaimed, and he laughed sonorously. "You're a wolf in sheep's clothing" she giggled.

His smile faded. "And without the apron?" he inquired, regarding her intently.

"A wolf in wolf's clothing of course" she sighed sleepily, and his eyes darkened fractionally.

He watched as she leant her head back to rest on the chaise, her eyes fluttering closed and opening again, her scarred hand resting limply on the cushion, palm exposed. He was almost certain that should he offer to help her to her room, that should he kiss her, that should he initiate something more…he would receive no resistance from her. It both troubled and excited him.

"I'm sorry" she said thickly "but I think I need to go to bed."

He rose from his chair as she pushed herself up off the chaise, her long legs wobbling underneath her. He was by her side in an instant, steadying her with a warm hand at her back. She clutched at his arm and smiled up at him, her eyes glazed. "Thank you Red, for everything. I had a wonderful day" she slurred.

"I think we need to get you upstairs" he said quietly.

"Hmmm, yes please. I'm sorry" she mumbled.

"You have nothing to be sorry for sweetheart" he murmured, walking her on shaking legs into the hallway and up the stairs, his hand firmly at her waist.

When they reached the top of the stairs she turned to him and spoke with surprising clarity, her blue eyes blinking up at him earnestly. "You know…you need people to think you're a monster. Anything else makes you vulnerable. But you're more than that…you're a kind person. Goodnight, Red."

He watched, rooted to the spot as she disappeared into her room, closing the door behind her.

"Goodnight Lizzie" he breathed. "Happy Birthday."

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N Reddington asks Liz to make a decision that will change the course of their relationship. Stupid amounts of sexual tension. Comfort, a lil smut. Disclaimed, as always, and, as always, I love reviews :-)**

The day after her birthday Liz woke with a hangover which, although unpleasant, wasn't nearly as bad as she had expected. She supposed it was true what she'd heard, that fine wines don't give you much of a hangover. Or in this case a mixture of fine red wine and fine champagne she thought, groaning inwardly. As she showered away the excesses of the previous day an uncomfortable thought began to form in her mind, becoming more and more poignant as she pulled on elegant underwear, pants and a sweater from the luxurious selection he had purchased for her: yesterday, she had forgotten. She had forgotten who she was, and perhaps more dangerously, she had forgotten who _he_ was.

Being trapped here on her birthday should have been a miserable experience, but it had been, she realized with some alarm, one of the loveliest birthdays she'd had as an adult. Yesterday he had seduced her – not sexually exactly, although he had a way of making her feel naked around him – but mentally and emotionally. She chastised herself bitterly for having succumbed to it. She knew who he was, and she'd seen a warehouse full of bodies that he'd dropped without so much as a second glance. She had to hold on to that if she was going to survive.

When she met Reddington downstairs later on, she accepted the aspirin and juice he offered graciously, and was pleasant and polite to him, all the while shoring up her defenses. She wouldn't let him in again.

* * *

He knew within minutes of talking with her the next day that something had changed. Despite her hangover her temperament had sweetened considerably. She seemed to consider her words carefully and her responses, whilst friendly, were distant. He understood immediately that she was attempting to reestablish the boundaries between them that he had so successfully eroded the previous day; he even admired her for it. But he wasn't going to allow it, _oh no_ he chuckled inwardly.

For him, her birthday had been a revelation; he was feeling something he hadn't thought himself capable of, something he didn't dare to name – something that had no place in his miserable, brutal existence. He wasn't going to let it go.

He waited patiently until evening came, observing her growing confidence that her attempts to keep him at arm's length had been successful, biding his time until the perfect moment presented itself to gently work at her defenses. He needed her to need him, and he knew exactly where to press to get her to open up.

He found her in the library deep in thought, staring out over the grounds as dusk fell. Approaching her with feline stealth, he was almost behind her before she saw his reflection in the window and jumped.

"You crept up on me!" She scolded.

"I don't creep" he responded calmly, turning on a stained glass tiffany desk lamp and illuminating the room in warm light. "You were quite preoccupied. Are you alright?" he asked softly.

She smiled a little too fast. "Fine thanks. Really."

He sighed, working his jaw slightly as if considering whether to express his thoughts. He allowed the suspense to mount, and observed her growing increasingly tense in his presence.

"Elizabeth, in order for me to settle a matter of some importance it has unfortunately become necessary for me to have a discussion with you regarding your association with the Lorcas. I'm aware that this may be difficult for you, and I'll try to make it as painless as possible."

She folded her arms defensively. "What do you need to know?"

He nodded gently in appreciation of her consent to be questioned. "I asked you at the warehouse what it was that you had done to anger them. I believe I know but I'd like you to confirm it. It was you" he said softly.

"What was me?" She said cautiously.

He smiled and laughed softly at her attempt to play innocent. "My operation at the warehouse was planned to coincide with the arrest of Hector Lorca. His departure left them vulnerable. It was a gift for me – Hector was _exceptionally_ careful, protected himself and never left any witnesses - but I was curious to know how the FBI suddenly became so efficient. Your profile led to his arrest, didn't it Lizzie" he said gently. "I need to know."

Liz paused for a moment and then nodded.

"I'm proud of you" he said quietly. "Although with a gift like that you are going to make enemies. That's something you can't afford."

She shrugged guardedly. "Can anyone? And how did you know that it was my profile that got him arrested? I could've been there for any number of reasons."

Reddington's expression softened. He hated hurting her, but aside from his need to prevent her from undoing the progress they had made, he was painfully aware that his holding her captive had prevented her from discussing her ordeal at the hands of the Lorcas with a professional or even a friend. He needed her to know that she could talk to him. That he understood, perhaps better than anyone, the cruelty of which human beings are capable. Despite the fact that she'd rejected his sympathy when she arrived, he knew she needed it. Things had changed between them, and he was confident that she would yield.

"I suspected that it was you who implicated Hector early on when you said that you were taken for revenge" he began slowly. "That, combined with seeing some of your injuries for myself… It was personal for them. I'm afraid I can read bruises like others read books. They leave unique patterns – mosaics that leave a print on the mind long after the body has healed. Lizzie I'm so sorry. For your suffering."

As he spoke, Liz was alarmed to find tears prick her eyes. His tone was low and soothing, but most of all he sounded as though he cared deeply – as though she were the most precious thing in the world - and she couldn't deal with that. Why is it always like that, she thought. It's easy to hold the tears in as long as no one shows concern. But he was concerned, and he'd found a way to make her crumble. Swallowing a hard lump she turned away from him back to the window, her breath shuddering.

"How long does the mind take to heal" she asked quietly. "How long till it's gone?"

He sighed and stepped closer until she could feel the warmth from his body behind her, and hear his voice soft in her ear.

"Terror, humiliation – even pain – these things all exist in the mind as long as we give them a home there. Fear will make you as brittle and breakable as a porcelain doll, and spread into the darkest corners. It will take up residency with every dark secret or concern that you have if you let it."

She closed her eyes when she felt his large hands come to rest on her shoulders, warm and comforting and gentle. She didn't flinch as he began to work his fingers slowly on her shoulders.

"You need to learn to bend, Lizzie" he continued, his voice low and soothing. "Adapt."

She sighed as he brought his fingers slowly up her neck to her temples, moving in little circles with a light pressure as he murmured in her ear.

"There's a thread that runs through every one of us that others cannot touch. When you truly grasp that thread – when you achieve complete control over your mind and body - a violent act committed against you can feel like the gentle touch of a friend…" As he spoke he worked his fingers between her neck and shoulders, applying firmer pressure until she felt the tension ebb away and a strange, pleasurable sensation creep over her. "…or a lover" he finished in honey tones.

She shuddered involuntarily and leaned back slightly into him, whereupon the pressure of his hands increased a little, his thumbs drawing gentle circles on her neck. He massaged her carotid, the hypnotic rhythm of his fingers slowing her heart rate fractionally until she began to feel sleepy and her head fell back against his shoulder. She felt drunk again, mesmerized by his voice and the warmth of his body.

His hands on her skin were textured, the pressure of his thumbs offset by the gentle caress of his fingers on her neck, stroking and exploring. She imagined those hands working from their current location at her throat down the rest of her body, sending slivers of excitement coursing through her. She thought of parting her legs for him as his talented fingers reached her stomach and continued down to where she most wanted to be touched.

He'd stopped speaking and she became keenly aware of her breasts aching, slickness between her legs and her proximity to _him_. It terrified her. She was a prisoner - she didn't want this, she _couldn't_ want this. How was he able to make her feel this way?

Letting out a small sound of protest she lurched forward out of his grip and spun round to face him, her face flushed and her breathing erratic. "What are you doing?" she said, panicked. "Whatever it is you're doing, just stop!"

He stared at her impassively, his head canted to the side in that infuriatingly nonchalant gesture of his with which she had become familiar. "God, don't look at me like that!" she continued desperately.

He nodded slowly, and his voice when he spoke was calm and quiet. "Could it be that you're angry because you're aroused…and that frightens you."

The color in her cheeks deepened with crippling embarrassment. "What? No!" She tried desperately to think of something else to say and failed, overwhelmed by his intense gaze and the feel of her heart speeding up in her chest.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of" he continued softly. "It's a perfectly natural reaction to the situation in which you find yourself."

"How can you say that? You kidnapped me!" she choked.

"I rescued you", he responded smoothly, "from _dire_ circumstances and almost certain death, and brought you to a place of safety. It would be understandable if you developed a certain… _attachment_ to your rescuer. I'm sure with your training that you're familiar with the phenomenon" he finished, matter-of-factly.

"If anything this is captor-bonding!" she shot back heatedly. "You're keeping me prisoner and I'm developing an attachment in order to please you – to protect myself from you."

Reddington frowned quizzically. "Captor-bonding" he repeated. "You think you've developed Stockholm syndrome, Lizzie? Well well." He began to smile wryly and a horrible feeling of insecurity gnawed at her stomach. Their fights, the flirting, her birthday they'd spent together…Now they were laying their cards on the table and he held them all.

"As I understand it, Stockholm syndrome requires a credible threat from the captor from which the victim is attempting to protect themselves. Do you feel threatened, Elizabeth?" he continued softly. "Have I given you any reason to believe I would hurt you? Have I not, in fact, gone to great lengths to explain to you that you have nothing to fear from me?"

"That doesn't change what's happening here" she responded, biting her lip with the effort of sticking to her point in the heat of his gaze.

He nodded stiffly. "Oh I'm sure that would suit you very well, wouldn't it? Poor young FBI agent kidnapped by a diabolical crime lord, brainwashed and forced to participate in all _sorts_ of wicked activities. It absolves you of any responsibility; you don't have to face the fact that not everything is so black and white, that _people_ aren't just good or evil. There's just one problem with your theory, Agent Scott – I'm not forcing you to do anything while you're here. Rest. Recover. That's all I ask. The worst that will happen to you is that when you are released the FBI will give you some time off and a mandated therapy session where you can talk about just how much the big bad criminal _didn't_ hurt you."

As he spoke his tone became increasingly sharp, his eyes were glittering and his chest heaved under the layers of elegant wool-silk. She watched, dizzy as the buttons on his vest moved in time with his breathing.

She licked her lips nervously. "What are you saying? That there's nothing between us – that this is in my head? You're just waiting until you can get rid of me?" Her stomach knotted at the thought; disturbed as she was by the idea that she desired him, the thought that he may not return her feelings made her feel so ashamed. What was wrong with her?

His expression softened then, and he stepped forward, gently tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. "No Elizabeth, that's not it at all. I think you know what I want" he said quietly. "But we both need to be clear that if you invite me into your bed, it will be your choice to do so, made freely and with the understanding that there will be no penalty should you wish our relationship to remain platonic."

Liz swallowed. He was offering her the choice and she knew she should decline, that she should keep as far away from him as possible until he released her. The alternative would be unthinkable – her job with the FBI, the emotional fall-out, not to mention the fact that for all his refinement he was obviously an extremely dangerous man. He stood so close now, enough that she could feel the warmth of his body again and his breath on her hair.

"And if I… accept…" she whispered hesitantly, her heart racing uncomfortably. "If I say yes…"

He leaned in fractionally until his lips brushed lightly against her ear. "If you accept" he began in low tones, his voice like molten rock, "I will make you come, over, and over, _and over_ until there is nothing left but pleasure….until you understand that there are no sides Lizzie, only players, and this is a game I play very, very well. I will make you forget that anyone ever hurt you, Elizabeth."

His words poured into her ear like a litany of pure lust, intensifying the sweet spirals of desire coiling through her until her knees trembled.

"Yes" she whispered, her voice ragged. "Mmmm yes. Please Red."

He stepped back and studied her face intently. She stared back at him with all the conviction she could muster, blinking a little. He seemed satisfied.

"Go upstairs to your room Elizabeth" he said a little hoarsely. "Strip to your underwear and wait for me on the bed."

She looked up at him in shock, her face burning at his directness. "Now?"

He raised a hand gently, cupping her cheek. "Are you having second thoughts already? If you are, then it would be wise to stop this now."

She felt a strange panic grip her at the thought that she might miss her chance, that she might alienate him. "No! I… now is fine" she finished quietly.

He nodded. "Good. Go upstairs Lizzie. I'll be with you shortly."

* * *

He watched as she turned and left the room. As soon as she had gone he exhaled loudly and balled his hands into fists. It was one thing to fantasize about her, but this was something else. Even as he'd recognized his attraction to her - even as he'd purposefully cultivated an attraction in her - he'd never really thought that it would come to this.

Last night should have been the end of it, really. He'd spent a wonderful day with her, learnt so much about her, been graced with her true self, vibrant and fierce and soft. He didn't deserve so much. But he was greedy, like a man who has plucked a flower from its bed and is bruising it with repeated attentions. He'd plied her with alcohol and stripped away her inhibitions, perhaps just to know that the option was there… but when the time had come she'd gone to bed safe and alone. There was precious little in his world to take pride in, so few values still held dear, but that was one.

Of course, this was different. She was making the choice freely. She wasn't obliged, or intoxicated. It was her decision, he'd made that clear. His palms began to sweat and he thought briefly of Sam, drunk, worried and pining for his daughter. He pushed the thought from his mind and headed for the stairs.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N Liz is anxious at the prospect of sleeping with one of the world's most wanted criminals. Reddington assuages her fears but is hiding doubts of his own. First time/Smut. NSFW. I'm not kidding, so much smut. Disclaimed – this is in no way associated with the show, especially that last episode. I love reviews so much – make my day :-)**

Upstairs, Liz removed her clothes as quickly as she could, her fingers numb and shaky. When she was down to her bra and panties she climbed onto the bed and thought about how to position herself. What would he be expecting? Should she be under the covers or on top? Lying down or sitting? The thought of lying down made her feel vulnerable and sent a sick feeling coiling in her stomach. She knelt and sat back on her haunches, her hands resting on her thighs.

As she waited for him she began to worry about things she hadn't in years. What would he think of her body? Her breasts were a nice shape but quite small. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and he'd had his hands in her hair. She should brush it. What would he do, and what would he expect her to do? Sex had always been simple for her; the few men she'd been with were also relatively inexperienced and just happy for her to take the lead. Now she couldn't stop thinking about her underwear - she wished he'd asked her to take that off too. She was embarrassingly aware of the wet patch on her panties, slick against the cream silk and undeniable evidence of the arousal he had detected with such alarming incisiveness.

She sprang up off the bed and went to the dresser, grimacing when she saw herself in the mirror. She hadn't really looked at her body properly since she had been taken. She'd lost a lot of weight; her ribs still protruded unattractively although Reddington had done a good job of feeding her up - like a witch in a gingerbread house fattening up his prey, she thought wryly. The worst bit was the cuts and bruises that adorned her body. They had healed well, but she was still covered in yellowish stains. She bent down to study her face in the mirror. Her cheeks were reddened, as she had suspected. No wonder he'd read her feelings so accurately; although she was generally a private person she was like an open book when it came to him. She reached for a hairbrush.

"Lizzie?"

She straightened quickly in alarm at the sound of his voice – she'd been so panicked she hadn't heard him come in.

"I thought I told you to wait on the bed" he said softly. "If we're going to do this, you need to trust me." She felt a further shiver of panic run through her, but he hadn't spoken unkindly.

"I… My hair was a mess" she responded lamely.

He smiled gently and approached her, looking down at her and smoothing her hair with his hands. "You are absolutely perfect." He paused and looked at her with such open affection it took her breath away.

She gestured to her body and broke the silence with a nervous laugh. "I'm still a little beat up."

A pained look crossed his face and after a moment he closed the small gap between them until her silk bra brushed against the wool of his vest. "Lizzie, when I look at you…" he broke off, shaking his head as if he couldn't find the words. Looking up at him she saw a depth of emotion in his eyes that she had never seen before; she didn't understand it, and it frightened her, but beyond all that she wanted more of it.

She moistened her lips unconsciously and he slowly brought his mouth to hers, his lips soft and firm, one hand on the nape of her neck and the other resting on the curve of her back just above the silk line of her panties. It was simultaneously chaste and rapacious, the pressure of his lips was so sensual, his tongue just present with a lingering promise of more. She arched into him and eventually he broke the kiss, humming in satisfaction as her head fell back, exposing her throat to him.

He ran soft, tingling kisses down her neck, just barely scraping his teeth over the delicate skin of her carotid, the tip of his tongue occasionally brushing against her skin to taste her. He moved back up slowly, inhaling her natural scent, his breath tickling her earlobe and making her shiver before his lips found hers again, his mouth open and hot this time.

If this was their first kiss, she thought hazily, making love with him would surely kill her…and she wanted to die.

"Elizabeth" He broke away from her and she opened her eyes, her pupils blown. "Sweetheart we can leave it there" he said, his voice low and rough. "If you want this to stop…" There was something in his tone that made her think that he wanted her to say it was enough. But it wasn't.

"Please don't" she murmured, shaking her head. "Don't stop."

A strange look passed over his face for a moment; his jaw clenched and his eyes seemed to darken.

"Kneel on the bed" he said thickly.

A tremor of both desire and apprehension shot through her at his words; she was irrationally elated that she had guessed correctly – she was supposed to kneel – but also afraid of what they were going to do, and what it would mean.

Swallowing, she moved to the bed as instructed, climbing on like a sacrificial virgin onto an altar. Once in position she closed her eyes, and a moment later she felt the bed dip under her as he joined her. Kneeling in front of her still fully clothed apart from his shoes, he pressed a gentle kiss onto her forehead before reaching round to unclasp her bra. She took a sharp breath at the cool air on her nipples as her breasts were exposed to him. She expected to feel his hands on her but there was nothing but stillness.

Confused, she opened her eyes. He was right there in front of her, looking not at her chest but at her face, scanning her expression. His gaze was so intense – why wasn't he doing anything, or saying anything? She glanced down nervously.

"Can you look at me?" he said softly.

She met his eye with effort and he gave her a reassuring smile. "Good girl. You are exquisite, Elizabeth. You are safe with me. And you have _nothing_ to be ashamed of. Understand?"

She nodded and smiled involuntarily. It was like a weight had been lifted, and it was only then that she realized that she _had_ been ashamed – terribly so – since the Lorcas had chained her up, taunted and abused her. He seemed to know that, even if she hadn't.

He bent down and kissed her cheek softly, the scratchy wool of his vest scraping against her sensitive nipples.

"Are you ready to lie down now?" He was still using that voice, the one that tightened her insides in all the right places – it was so reassuring and gentle in that moment she thought that she would do anything for him.

She nodded and brought her legs out from under her, lying back in much the same place as she had when he had stitched her up. The thought sent a thrill of suspense running through her. He was going to make her feel so good.

She came back to her senses when she felt his hands, gentle but firm at her hips, tugging her sodden panties down her legs and off. Instinctively she clenched her thighs together and her hand went to cover herself but he took it in his. "No sweetheart – there's no reason to hide from me. You're aroused, it's perfectly natural. Just relax."

He kissed the tips of her fingers and laid her hand gently at her side. A long moment passed in silence while he looked at her lying in front of him, his expression almost reverent. She began to feel herself respond under his warm gaze, and became more and more aware of her body; the feel of the soft, cool sheets under her thighs, the scratch of his wool pants brushing against her bare skin, the hardening of her nipples, and the low pulse between her legs.

Finally, he began to touch her, though again it wasn't what she expected. He began to run his finger gently over her collar bone, over her shoulder and arm, and over her chest, avoiding her breasts. To this movement he added his palm too, stroking her and warming her with the heat of his hand. After a moment she realized he was tracing the pattern of the bruising on her body, enough to tingle but not to hurt. It excited her that he was actually using her injuries to make her feel pleasure and reassure her; she knew where his hand would move next, whether his touch would be light or firm. It was like profiling – tracing a pattern of behavior and predicting the next move.

She quivered as his palm lay flat on her stomach below her belly button, and fought the urge to buck her hips to move his hand between her legs where she ached for him. He would think that was crass, she thought, but couldn't prevent a gasp escaping her lips as he pressed harder with his palm, the burn of her bruises mixing delightfully with the swirling desire low in her belly.

He looked up at her, continuing his slow movements on her abdomen as he spoke. "Part your legs a little for me sweetheart."

Her mouth went dry but she did as he asked, waiting for the moment she would feel his fingers slide between her folds.

Smiling knowingly, he continued down her body but to her dismay, he avoided the area between her legs just as he had her breasts, his hand moving instead to stroke her inner thighs, his thumb working sweet little circles that intensified her desire so much that she was sure that he would feel the evidence of it leaking down her thighs. She closed her eyes, embracing the feeling of floating, and the tantalizing throbbing in her clit.

Before long she felt his hands slide firmly down her calves and grip her ankles where the last of her bruises lay; even, circular welts where her ankles had been tied together. She felt as though he was anchoring her somehow, bringing her to level of reality she had never experienced.

"How are you feeling Lizzie?" he murmured, raising one of her ankles and pressing a gentle kiss onto the little bone there.

She opened her eyes. He knelt at her feet looking down at her, still pristine in his wool vest and shirt, although she could clearly see an impressive bulge in his pants which told her he wasn't as relaxed as he appeared. "So good" she whispered. "This doesn't even feel like my body."

"But it is sweetheart" he answered softly. "And it's magnificent…the things it can do. Let me show you. Turn over Lizzie."

She looked unsure for a moment, the idea of not being able to see him both thrilling and worrying her. He tilted his head, giving her a reassuring smile, and she turned, her nipples brushing deliciously against the sheets. She felt the mattress dip on either side of her as he knelt over her, before his warm palms met her skin again, holding her and stroking her, familiarizing her with the feel of his hands, keeping the pressure light but firm. He kneaded her buttocks and thighs and calves, rubbing her down and warming her skin until she squirmed under him, grinding herself into the sheets, desperate for friction.

She heard him laugh, a low and seductive sound, at her vain efforts to relieve the tension. "You've been very patient, haven't you Lizzie" he crooned.

She moaned into the pillow incoherently, and it occurred to her than in turning her over he had allowed her a sort of privacy, to focus on nothing but her own pleasure.

"Let's see if you're ready for a reward" he continued silkily as he moved up her body, the wool of his pants dragging up the backs of her thighs. Brushing her hair to the side, he kissed her neck, nibbling and sucking on the sensitive skin before she felt his fingers slide slowly inside her, making her gasp.

She parted her legs more to grant him better access and he began to work his fingers in and out, rubbing over her G spot again and again sending spirals of pleasurable need coursing through her entire body - she was _so close_. She wriggled her hips impulsively and he cupped her, his fingers finally sliding repeatedly over her clit until she cried out in ecstasy, wave after wave erupting like sweet lightening.

He groaned as he felt her pulse in his hand, and when she came back to her senses she heard him hum in appreciation of her little performance. He gently turned her limp body over and she lay there panting softly, her face and chest reddened. He smiled languidly, but his eyes were dark and sharp, devouring the sight of her. Planting his knee between her legs, he bent down and drew one of her taut nipples into his mouth, suckling at her while his hand cupped her other breast – she fit perfectly in his palm.

The last throes of her orgasm melted away, replaced with a strange feeling of warmth and weightlessness which made her wonder fleetingly whether this was really happening at all, or if it was some strange fantasy. He removed his wet, open mouth from her breast and sat back, trailing his hand down between her legs again and sliding his fingers back and forth.

"Oh, no I can't – please…"

He laughed gently. "You can, Lizzie. Feel how wet you are for me - a woman's body is an instrument, designed for sensation…for pleasure." As he spoke his deep voice rumbled over her, and he continued to work his fingers on her despite her protestation.

"An instrument…" she echoed breathlessly. "And I guess you're an expert in playing it" she finished, fixing him with a deep blue stare.

He smiled at that and rose up over her, his arms resting on either side of her. "Every woman's body is unique. And yours…" he shook his head in admiration. "Well I should very much like to continue learning... _everything_ … about you. For example, I've been utterly, _helplessly_ distracted by the thought of how you might taste" he finished seductively.

"How I… oh." Liz blushed. It wasn't that she hadn't tried that before but it wasn't a frequent occurrence and she certainly wasn't sure she was ready for that kind of intimacy with Reddington. But as she tried to think of how to object he caught her mouth in a passionate kiss, persuading his tongue into her mouth just as she knew that he would down there.

Riding waves of doubt and pure sensation she was dimly aware of his mouth working its way down her body, his kissing and soothing the marks on her body with his tongue. She yelped suddenly as she felt him nip her inner thigh with his teeth. "Come back to me Elizabeth" he growled. "I won't tolerate anything less than your full attention. Would you like to tell me what's on your mind?"

She was terrified that she'd offended him but then he gave her a reassuring smile that calmed her a little. "It's nothing, just…I'm not used to…"

"Oral sex?" he finished for her as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

She nodded, and he laughed softly shaking his head. "In that case your gentleman friends have been no gentleman at all" he mused, running his lips up the inside of her thigh, kissing her and breathing her in. "Mmmmm, just relax Lizzie" he hummed, before bringing her knees up gently and nudging her legs further apart. She didn't like to say that there had been very few 'gentleman friends' as he put it, and they were really more boys than gentlemen. At least compared to him.

Her thoughts vanished the moment she felt his tongue on her. After that there was nothing but the sweetest sensation of being rocked, caressed from the inside out as he lapped slowly around her clit, pausing occasionally to turn his tongue inside her like a key in a lock. He murmured endearments and groans of appreciation, taking such obvious pleasure in it – in her – that before long she was squirming with abandon. He brought her to the edge and held her there; she bucked her hips until finally he held her down with a firm hand, suckling her clit while the fingers of his other hand entered her again, curling inside her until the most delicious orgasm broke over her and she actually _whimpered_ with the force of it.

"Oh Lizzie" he breathed into her thigh. "You have no idea what you do to me. You are _sublime_."

Speechless still, she tugged at his shoulder and he came up to lie beside her, pulling her into his arms and nuzzling her neck.

"You're still dressed" she said breathlessly. It didn't seem like a controversial comment but she felt him tense a little behind her.

"And you would like me to undress?" He sounded almost hesitant.

"Well… that's usually necessary for sex" she said with a smile, turning to look at him.

His green eyes had lost the warmth they'd had a moment ago, now sharp and intense. "And… is sex what you want?" he answered, his expression unfathomable.

She frowned. "Isn't that what you said?"

He paused for a moment, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I said I would make you come over and over-"

"And over" she finished, smiling coyly. "I've had a birth control shot if that's what you're worried about. I mean…you were seriously going to do all this for me and not...take what you want? You do want me, don't you?" she said, boldly sliding her hand to the fat bulge in his trousers.

He groaned loudly. "You can't possibly fathom how much I want you sweetheart."

"I think I have some idea."

She swallowed hard and reached out, her shaking fingers unfastening the buttons on his vest. He allowed her to slip it off and stayed very still as she began to undo his shirt. When her hand slipped under the material on his shoulders she felt rough, uneven skin, strange and textured under her fingers. She looked at his face questioningly and it was a mask, his jaw tight as she determinedly pushed his shirt off, revealing scarred, ravaged skin that extended the full length of his back.

She ran her fingers lightly over him. "Does it hurt?"

"No." The word seemed to resonate deep in his chest.

"Is this why you were reluctant to take things further?" she pressed.

He gave a small, hollow laugh. "In a way."

"Because I've never been so attracted to a man in my life" she continued as confidently as she could. "I've never felt this way. And I have a scar of my own" she finished, holding out her palm to him, her eyes round and earnest.

As she looked at him she thought for a moment that she saw his impossibly green eyes glitter with tears, but he bent his head to kiss her extended palm before she could be sure.

When he raised his head again his eyes were burning with a look so intense that her breath caught in her throat. She saw the broad muscles of his arm flex as he reached down to undo his belt, and lay back without resistance when he pushed her down on the bed. He pinned her in place with an unwavering stare while he removed the rest of his clothing, sending icy tendrils of anticipation snaking through her stomach.

She felt it before she saw it, warm and thick and velvety on her thigh. He was fully erect and bigger than she had imagined when she'd felt him hard against her days ago. She felt tingly, as though her whole body had been rinsed in mouthwash, but the weightless fog in her mind was receding. This was real. The concierge of crime – one of the most dangerous men in the world – was going to make love to her.

Gripping his penis in his right hand he began to rub the tip against her folds, up and down, just like he had with his fingers. The thrill of this contact was almost unbearable, the covetous look on his face more so as he focused on sliding his tip over her clit repeatedly while she moaned beneath him. Suddenly he stopped, just looking at her for long moments before he positioned himself at her entrance and penetrated her with a slow, determined stroke that stole the air from her lungs.

He began to move gently inside her and closed his eyes with an almost pained expression, his forehead creased and his teeth clamped against his cheek. A delicious sensation gripped her deep inside as he moved and soon she wound her legs around him, pulling him deeper and stretching herself luxuriously to a confluence of pain and pleasure. He let out a strangled moan and pulled her to him, burying his face in her neck and thrusting in hard, long strokes.

As he held her she thought for a second that she could feel tears on her cheek, tears that were not her own. Overcome with pleasure in the warmth of his arms, everything narrowed to a single thought: this man – this criminal – was the most tender lover she had ever known.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N Reddington's guilt over their night spent together is compounded when Liz finds something she was never meant to see. Romangst/Suspense. Penultimate chapter. Disclaimed all the way home. Please do review, I love them so. :-)**

As he stared at the young woman resting in his arms Reddington knew that sleep would elude him that night. Her dark lashes were closed, her tousled hair curled on his shoulder and her hand lay on his chest as she slept, blissfully unaware that the man in whose arms she lay was deserving of neither sleep nor rest nor peace. He replayed the evening's events in his mind – the wonder of her beauty and desire for him, the unearthly pleasure of taking her in his arms at last…the horror of what he had done.

 _Captor bonding_. Her words wriggled like acid in his brain. He knew now that she had been right. Hell, he had known then. He had used the power he had over her to seduce her, and betrayed the trust of his oldest friend. When his reckoning came, even amongst a litany of egregious offences, it would weigh heavily on the scales. And what might he say in his defense? Only perhaps that she had captured him just as he had her. From the moment their lives became entwined he couldn't help but fall in love with her – he couldn't help it any more than she could.

After he was sure that she was deeply asleep he gently laid her head on the pillow, drew the covers over her, and crept silently from the bed.

* * *

She woke some time later to find the space next to her cold and empty. As she became aware of her nakedness against the sheets the enormity of what had transpired washed over her but, curiously, she wasn't afraid. After all, he wasn't some college boy who she was worried would leave and never call, and if he was going to kill her after having sex with her… Well. If that had been his plan, she would never have woken up. She almost laughed at the strangeness of these thoughts, strangest of all the thought that at some point amidst her fear and anger she had fallen in love with him.

Pulling on a blue robe, she stole downstairs and followed the sound of clinking glass to the door of the sitting room which stood ajar. He sat hunched in an armchair wearing his shirt and pants, with a wooden box open on the table beside him. A glass of scotch dangled loosely from his fingertips and he held what appeared to be a photograph in his other hand. He hadn't seen her, and she held her breath, watching him silently as he drained the glass, clattered it down on the table and cradled the picture in his hands like a baby bird. His breaths were ragged, torn edges of suppressed sobs.

She found herself consumed with curiosity; the atmosphere in the house and everything about her stay there was heavy with secrets she was dying to uncover. Who or what was in the photograph? An old lover, perhaps. Someone long since gone or deceased. Someone important enough for him to feel a sense of…what, guilt? Betrayal? Shame? Did he regret sleeping with her? Whatever it was, she had to know.

Suddenly he rose from his chair and replaced the photograph in the box, locking it with a resounding click. She darted into the nearest room and hid behind the door, watching him make for the stairs through the crack of the doorframe.

She did a quick mental calculation. There wasn't a household lock she'd come across that she couldn't pick in under two minutes. Even if it was really tough, she'd probably do it in three. Even if he went straight to her bedroom to check on her and found her gone, in that time she could be coming back up the stairs claiming she went to look for him.

As soon as he was out of sight she slipped into the sitting room and went straight for the box. She felt a pang of doubt when she saw the lock. This wasn't a standard keepsake box at all. It was as sophisticated as a home safe, and, judging by the weight, it was reinforced with metal on the inside. Top of the line technology, masquerading as a worn and much loved antique. She knew she should leave it, but she'd come too far. Since they'd slept together she'd felt a new energy and power that she couldn't explain.

She rifled through the desk in a frenzy looking for tools of the right shape and density. Settling on a large paper clip and a watchmaker's screwdriver she set to work on the lock. She almost had it several times and then slipped, determinedly beginning again, aligning the tiny discs inside the mechanism one by one until it finally clicked open. Hands shaking, she opened the lid of the box and gazed down at the photograph which lay on top of the papers inside.

The brain is funny, she thought - always finding strange ways to protect ourselves from danger, from truths we can't handle. Perhaps that was why, for just a moment, she wondered about the girl in the photograph, who she was and why she was wearing the same high school graduation robes as she had.

The mirage was pitifully short, and a second later a soft, anguished moan twisted out of her throat as she realized that it was her own, goofy, smiling teenage image staring up at her. It was a copy of a photograph her dad had on the mantle, though this one was still framed in the photographer's thick blue card, the ink worn and pressed with thumb prints. She felt nauseous.

"That lock is a Rosengren RKL 10" came Reddington's calm voice from somewhere behind her.

Yelping in fright she spun round to see him standing in the doorway. He was shaking his head fractionally, his expression placid except for his eyes which were wide and fixed on her.

"You picked it in under four minutes, that's impressive Lizzie. Sam taught you well" he added in a hard tone.

"No..." she whispered. "No, please no" she moaned as the implications hit her – he knew her father, he had deceived her. She had been right – it was all a sick game. Her heart was hammering so hard now she thought she would choke on it; all she could think of was running, of escaping his steely gaze on her.

"Lizzie" he warned, as though he knew what she was thinking.

"No! Whatever this is, I'm done, _I can't_ -" she choked before bolting past him.

"Oh no" he said matter-of-factly, grabbing her upper arm and pulling her back in front of him. "We're not _nearly_ done."

"What could you possibly say?" she stuttered, shaking in his grip. "How you've known my father all along? How you've been lying to me the entire time?"

"I have never lied to you" he said emphatically. "I kept things from you - to _protect_ you – but I never lied to you." When she looked at his face his eyes were almost frightened. It didn't matter, she thought. He'd been caught; it didn't change anything.

She took a shuddering breath. "How could I have been so-"

"This isn't your fault, Lizzie." He cut her off, as if unable to bear hearing her say that their evening together was a mistake. "It's my fault. And I am so deeply sorry."

She closed her eyes and allowed the tears to roll silently down her cheeks. After a moment she felt the pressure on her arm disappear as he released her and brought his hands to her face, gently wiping away her tears. She looked up at him and saw his face drawn with concern for her.

"How do you know my father?" She whispered finally.

She watched his face closely as he winced a little but said nothing. She tried again. "Why do you have my picture?" He closed his eyes for a second and shook his head. She felt anger and frustration overtake her. " _Who are you?_ "

He took a deep breath, his expression pained. "Elizabeth, as difficult as this will be for you to understand, you must trust me when I say that to answer those questions now would place you in grave danger. I can't do that, not to you. I know that you want the truth and I can only promise you that it will come. In time."

She wanted to scream at him, to tell him it wasn't enough, that he'd deceived her. But more than anything, she yearned for him to hold her. She hated herself for it, for her neediness, for her overwhelming desire for his love even in the face of this bitter betrayal.

She composed herself with enormous effort, swallowing and pursing her lips to hold back the tide of recrimination. "Tonight…Us sleeping together. Was it all just a manipulation?"

He shook his head sharply, his tone aching with feeling. " _No_. Tonight was… everything."

As she studied his features she realized not only how earnest he was but how _afraid_ ; his face and shoulders were rigid with tension and his eyes were almost haunted. That was the most frightening thing of all. She would take it all away if only she could.

She watched as he turned and walked slowly further into the room, pausing by a vase of the ubiquitous roses with which the house had been furnished since her arrival. In the dim light of the low lamp they looked almost black but then he lifted one out and she could see that it was a deep red, the petals velvety in the shadows.

He raised the flower to his face and inhaled deeply before turning back to her. "You know…there's an old Russian folk tale, Аленький цветочек." As he spoke the Russian he extended his hand to her, offering her the rose.

"The Scarlet Flower" she murmured, accepting the deep red bloom.

His forehead creased. "You speak Russian" he asked slowly, his eyes sharp and focused on her.

"Not really. I guess I've just picked some up somewhere along the way. It happens with my job – I understand half a dozen languages but I'm no good at speaking them. So - the scarlet flower?"

Reddington smiled softly and continued. "Once upon a time, there was-"

"Seriously?" she cut him off incredulously. "You're actually going to tell me a fairy story? _Now_?"

"In a manner of speaking" he said gently. "May I continue?"

She swallowed her protest and nodded, sitting down on the chaise. She held the rose tightly between her fingers, brushing her thumb over a thorn and allowing its sting to ground her.

"Well then" he said, satisfied. "There was a merchant with three daughters. Before he embarked on a journey that would take him all over the world to exotic, dangerous places he asked each of them what gift they would like him to bring back. The first two asked for fabulous jewels and wealth, but his youngest and most loved daughter asked for nothing but a single flower. She told him that it should be the most beautiful scarlet flower he saw on all his travels."

Liz sat back and allowed his rich, animated voice to wash over her. She had to admit, he was a natural storyteller.

"The merchant obtained wealth and jewels, but try as he might he could never find a flower that was beautiful enough for his most loved daughter. One day the merchant's ship ran into a vicious storm and he was thrown into the waves. He washed ashore on a mysterious island, on which stood an enchanted castle. In the castle grounds he found the most beautiful flower he had ever seen, its color as red as his daughter's lips and petals as soft as her skin.

The moment he plucked it he was set upon by a hideous creature, a wretch doomed to solitude and damnation on the island. The merchant pleaded for his life, and explained that the flower was for his most loved youngest daughter. The creature told him that his life would be spared but that his youngest daughter was forfeit. She must be taken from everything she knows to live with the creature in the castle. The merchant pleads, begs him not to take her. But his pleas fall on deaf ears, and it is with much anguish that he loses his daughter to the…creature."

Reddington paused and took a pained breath, before meeting her eye. Suddenly he broke into a soft laugh. "The girl…she is so… unpredictable. Hard, then soft. Utterly beautiful. The creature becomes captivated by her. Falls in love with her. Eventually, unable to resist any longer, he seduces her."

"It's Beauty and the Beast" Liz interjected.

"It's a Russian tale, but yes it does bear a striking resemblance to the French story."

"So they lived happily ever after?"

Reddington smiled sadly. "In some accounts. But folk tales are often more complicated than the versions we reserve for children."

Liz stared numbly at the rose in her hand. "She would have to give up her whole life to be with him" she said slowly.

He nodded tightly. "The creature's hideous appearance and solitary life were designed as punishment for his wicked acts. He couldn't be allowed to find happiness again. He hadn't earned it. And he couldn't earn it by costing a young woman her freedom. He had wronged her terribly. Some have it that the moment he kisses her the girl falls into a deep sleep. The land around falls into civil war. And the creature despairs. It's only when he can right his wrongs and bring peace to the land that the spell can be broken."

"And does he do it?" she asked tentatively. "Bring peace and get the girl?"

Reddington chuckled softly. "I honestly don't know. But I wonder…in finding the _possibility_ of redemption…forgiveness…if he succeeded in his task…would the creature become less hideous?" He shook his head wistfully.

She studied him, the creases around his eyes deepening as he stared into a future that was doubtless as uncertain as that of the creature of whom he had spoken. "Perhaps she could help him. With his quest. It is the 21st Century, you know" she smiled.

Reddington laughed again. "Perhaps she could, at that. She is intelligent. Resourceful. I'm sure she'd be a formidable partner."

"You like telling stories, don't you" Liz said quietly.

"I do. The best stories are ones that tap into human emotion. Experience. The ones that tell us something about ourselves and the situations we're in."

She sighed in frustration, gripping the rose painfully tight in her hand. "I don't understand what you're trying to tell me. I don't understand any of this. There's only one thing that I know for sure. And it's the craziest thing of all."

"And what's that?" he asked softly, his tone deep and almost apprehensive.

Liz swallowed. "I've risked everything. My career, everything about my life. Because I'm falling in love with you. That's all I know for sure. Whoever you are, whatever you've done. I love you."

Reddington paled and stared at her, his lips slightly parted in shock. It was long moments before he spoke.

"Lizzie-"

Just as he began to respond, a shrill ring from a cell phone cut through the quiet. He blinked and walked away from her to retrieve it from the desk, observing the screen and pausing before answering.

"Yes."

"Ray, it's Sam. Don't hang up. Dammit you need to listen to me this time."

"I'm listening."

"The truth is I have cancer, Ray. I tried to tell you before. It's bad. I don't know if I'm going to beat this. I need her back - I need to know that she's safe." Sam's voice cracked with emotion, and Reddington squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm sorry, my friend" he answered heavily.

"I'm sorry too, Ray. But you left me no choice."

Reddington stiffened. "What have you done?"

"They're coming. The FBI. They're searching for her, Raymond – I left an anonymous tip, enough to help them find her. I didn't tell them about you, though God help me maybe I should have done. So unless you want to get caught you're gonna have to disappear."

"That was an extremely risky thing to do, my friend" Reddington said, his voice dangerously low. "How can you be sure that you haven't put her in jeopardy?"

Sam took a sharp breath. "Whatever's happened to you over the years, whoever you've become, I know you would never let anything happen to her. I'm still her father, and I want her back. This ends now. Ray" he added gently. "It's time to let her go."

Reddington was perfectly still for a moment. "I know" he breathed finally. "I know."

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N Final chapter! Reddington bets on the long play, leaving Liz wondering if fairy tales can ever come true. Angst/Romance/the long play. Disclaimed. I really hope you've enjoyed this fic, please do review! My new fic,** ** _Heat_** **, will be coming soon… ;-) NTD.**

As soon as he hung up, Reddington snapped the cell phone in two and stood in silence, breathing hard. He couldn't be angry at Sam. He'd done the only thing he could. Besides, Raymond Reddington could disappear in sixty seconds, and Sam knew that. He just wanted his little girl home safe – that was something Reddington understood.

His mind went suddenly to the files of the Major's operatives. He'd delayed and delayed but in truth he'd known at first glance who the candidate would be: Jacob Phelps, a young but exceptionally gifted street kid the Major had raised and trained into a highly skilled white collar operative. The kid was damaged for sure – probably a psychopath - but had an impressive resume and a remarkably unthreatening appearance for a professional liar and hitman. The Major had recommended him personally. Jacob Phelps AKA Tom Keen was the one into whose hands he would entrust her safety. It was a decision that, years later, he would bitterly regret.

He glanced up and saw the girl looking at him questioningly, utterly unaware of how lovely she was in the lamplight, the folds of her robe falling gracefully around her and the rose in her hand dark against her pale skin.

"What's going on?" She asked quietly.

"It appears that your colleagues at the FBI have made some progress in determining your whereabouts. I expect they'll be here to rescue you before long" he said evenly.

Liz frowned. "I don't need rescuing."

Reddington looked at her fondly before speaking in a resigned tone. "Perhaps not. But this changes things. Regrettably the time has come for you to go home. Go back to your job, Lizzie. Spend some time with your father…I'm sure he misses you."

She rose to her feet, her blue eyes wide with dismay. "No" she whispered. "I know you think you're protecting me but you don't get to send me away like this, not after tonight…"

She choked back a sob and he walked to her, drawing her gently to him, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head as she rested her head on his chest, her body tense. "Shhhhh, sweet girl" he soothed. "Everything's going to be ok."

Suddenly she broke away from him, her eyes shining. "No, it won't be! They're coming for us, so we need to leave now or stay and fight!" she said urgently. "Either way I'll need a gun. I may not carry a firearm but I'm trained to use one. We need to move now!"

As he listened to her his stomach crumpled in sickening realization. He had wanted to possess her, mind and body, to make her totally his…and he had succeeded. She was prepared to fight her own people, to give up her entire life for him, he who was so corrupt and undeserving of her love.

"These are your colleagues, Lizzie" he responded gently. "Your brethren. Are you really prepared to maim them? To take their lives?"

She ran a hand distractedly through her hair, her voice faltering. "I don't know. God, I don't know anything anymore. We need to go."

He stood quietly for a moment, regarding her thoughtfully, his expression pained. Finally he turned and walked to the scotch decanter on the dresser. "Very well. Let's have one for the road. Toast goodbye to the old place – these four walls have served us admirably."

"You can't be serious! We don't have time, we need to move now!"

"No need to panic Lizzie" he said, calmly fixing the drinks. "I never take up residence anywhere without a number of contingency plans in place. I can disappear in sixty seconds - in fact I offer that particular package to clients. Here" he said, handing her a glass of scotch.

He raised his own tumbler to toast, his eyes a little glassy. "To this ostentatious old house…to the _treasured_ memories I shall take from it…and to you, Elizabeth."

"To _us"_ she said determinedly, taking a sip from her glass.

He watched her closely for a few moments, his jaw tight. "I need you to sit down, Lizzie" he said quietly.

"I get that you have a plan and you're probably used to the FBI coming after you but I'm not, and I can't just hang out here and wait till the last minute!"

Reddington's lip twitched, his expression strained. "Elizabeth, you need to sit down." His tone was harder this time, almost stern.

"Did you not hear me?" she said sharply. "We need to go – why do you keep telling me to sit down?"

Finally he sighed and smiled at her sadly. "Because in about thirty seconds you'll be unconscious. I don't want you to hit your head when you fall."

She paused and her lips parted slightly in shock as she registered what he had said. She looked at the tumbler in her hand as numbness began to creep over her, the patterns in the carpet swirling in her peripheral vision like corn fields on a windy day. She stepped backwards shakily until her legs hit the chaise and he walked to her quickly in great strides, wrapping his arm around her waist to support her. He removed the glass gently from her hand and she looked up at him, blinking and confused.

"Why are you doing this?" she said, stricken.

He pressed a long kiss to her forehead, cradling her head in his hand as she clutched feebly at him. "It's for the best" he said quietly into her ear, his voice deep and hypnotic as the drug coursed through her. "I _promise_ you're going to be ok sweetheart. We will meet again, when the time is right. One day, we're going to make a great team."

Shortly after, he felt her body go limp and lifted her smoothly into his arms.

"I'm doing this because I love you" he breathed.

* * *

Liz woke lying on her bed upstairs in the grand house. She heard voices around her and felt pressure on her wrist. Her mouth was so dry and the world was spinning, but she managed to focus on the man standing next to her bed who was rather aggressively feeling for a pulse.

"She's alive – get a medic in here!" he commanded to the persons swarming the room.

The man looked down at her, his jaw set in a grim line, his regulation haircut made no less comical by the fact that he was ginger.

"Agent Scott, I'm Special Agent Donald Ressler with the FBI, Washington Field Office. It's over – you're gonna be fine" he said stiffly.

She looked around at the men in standard issue Kevlar tearing her bedroom apart, opening drawers, moving furniture. "Nothing, sir" one of them said loudly. "The whole place is pristine, like no one was ever here."

Liz licked her dry lips. "I don't need rescuing" she slurred, her tongue feeling thick and heavy.

"Sure" the agent responded sarcastically. "Where's that medic?" he yelled abrasively, his hand on his hips.

She hauled her heavy limbs into a half sitting position and noticed a single red rose lying on the night stand. Confused, she reached for it, desperate to connect with her hazy memories of the night. Agent Ressler batted her hand away.

"Please don't touch anything Agent Scott." He turned and gestured to one of his men, pointing at the rose. "Bag this."

Liz was about to protest when an ambulance crew arrived and surrounded her. They rolled up the sleeve of her silk robe, took her blood pressure and shone lights in her eyes which made her head spin even more. It was as though she was falling even though she was lying down. She couldn't _think_. Why was everything so jumbled?

She looked up at Agent Ressler and asked the only question she could think of.

"What the hell happened?"

"You've been missing for weeks, Agent. Your mobile psych team figured it was payback for your work on the Lorca case but the trail went cold. My team was already in New York working on another case, we got called to assist in the search for you."

"The Lorcas…" she said slowly.

"Yeah" the ginger agent continued. "That's what we all figured, but I gotta say this sleeping beauty shit isn't their MO. I reckon your team will have a lot of questions for you once you've been checked out."

Liz's cheeks reddened but thankfully by that point the paramedics were wrapping her in blankets and shifting her onto a gurney.

Once she was strapped in she looked up at the man. "Agent Ressler? You said you were here on another case. What was it?"

"I'm leading a dedicated task force" he said grandly. "We're hunting a wanted fugitive we think was in New York – nothing that concerns you."

Liz's heart tripped in her chest. "Who is it? Who are you looking for?" She asked as innocently as she could.

Agent Ressler waved his hand dismissively. "That's classified, Agent Scott."

"But you're close?"

She watched the agent's shoulders sag a little. "Honestly? Our guy's in the wind. But we did some good while we're here - we found you, a missing agent, alive. That's a win in my book." He turned to the paramedics. "Take her to hospital – and notify her family she's been found."

* * *

The next few days were a total blur. Whatever drug he had given her was so powerful she struggled to hold on to her memories, the events of the week merging and distorting in her mind. Perhaps he had wanted her to forget completely – it pained her deeply to think that he would purposefully take her memories of him away. Conversations and gestures and emotions twisted in her brain, but she could never forget the feel of his hands on her body or the lulling sound of his gentle voice. Whatever else, she knew he had been real. The man who rescued her, and loved her more deeply and completely than she had ever been loved.

In hospital she was thoroughly examined and photographed, and careful notes were taken regarding the treatment she had been given for her injuries. Her wounds had been stitched impeccably, the doctor had said. Someone had looked after her very well. Someone had cared.

When the inevitable questions were asked, she wasn't able to tell them much. She remembered being taken from outside work, being chained in a factory or warehouse for a time. She knew that she'd been moved to the grand house, but knew nothing about how she got there or where it was. All of that was perfectly true.

Eventually they found the warehouse, but, like the house, it was pristine with no sign that anyone had ever been there. Not a single member of the Lorca family had been seen since her disappearance. She thought of gunpowder and blood and roses, and stayed quiet.

It turned out that the estate wasn't far from where she had been held; empty, isolated and private - the logical place to go with a female victim, they'd said uncomfortably. But as for who had taken her? Their guess was as good as hers, she'd told them regretfully. She'd been drugged and remembered almost nothing.

Her colleagues were only too pleased that she wasn't able to help; the strange, uptight newbie who'd shown them all up with her work on the Lorca case had been taken down a peg or two. They were happy to fill in the blanks for her, theorizing that a member of the Lorca family or an associate had taken her themselves, either out of guilt or to satisfy some twisted fantasy. It was a good enough story and she clung to it; on some days she almost believed it.

But at night when the dreams came, dreams of fire and rabbits, silken robes and roses, his voice soothed her through her sleep, as intimate and real as the gentle, erotic caress of his murderous hands had been. On those nights she clung to the name, the name she claimed she never knew, the name she would never forget: Raymond 'Red' Reddington.

After that, everything moved so quickly. Her beloved, stoic father informed her as gently as he could that he had cancer, that perhaps he would make it, perhaps not. She didn't tell him about the man in her dreams, and all Sam said was that that he loved her oh so dearly and was mighty glad she was home and safe. He did beat the cancer, in fact, but with a strong chance of recurrence it's best to live each day as it comes, Butterball, he'd said. Forget the past, and look only to the future.

A year passed, and then another, the shadow of those strange weeks fading like her memories into the background while she advanced her career and planned a perfect future. She imagined a husband and a park and a little girl who would walk between them. Soon there was a man who asked her marry him, but there was just something missing. It was nothing she could put her finger on though, and a scrap of a dream is not enough to build a life with, she thought sadly. Fairy tales do not happen in real life. And so when the next man asked for her hand, a sweet, unthreatening school teacher, she said yes.

She was so happy and gave little thought to her past until her wedding day, when among the gifts she saw a familiar black velvet box. There was no gift wrap - no card even - but she knew what it was, even before she opened the box and saw the delicate necklace of sapphires and diamonds, she knew, and she cried as though her heart would never be whole again. As though it never had been.

The dreams came more frequently after that; fire, and blood and roses and lying in his arms. Sometimes he would be carrying her from the dreadful cell in which the Lorcas had imprisoned her. Other times he was carrying her through a raging fire, the flames licking at his back, but in those dreams she was just a child, her screams piercing the night from sometime long ago. Some nights, he would speak to her. Sometimes he told her everything was going to be ok, sometimes he asked her who it was she really wanted, his gentle voice calling to her through the darkness like a beacon from a lost and forgotten home.

Finally, the day came that she heard that voice again in waking hours.

Her first day in a new job. A box. A man in chains with a voice that sounded like home.

 _"_ _Agent Keen, what a pleasure."_

And she remembered it then, like it had always been a part of her, an old Russian tale from her past. A hideous creature living in darkness, the merchant's daughter his only light or pleasure in the world. How he loses her to a deep sleep while he must fight a long and bitter war to bring peace to the land. How she might awaken to fight at his side. How he would finally come for her. His true love.

The Scarlet Flower.

The End.


End file.
